


Unbound Anthologies

by drivelings



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 79
Words: 62,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28605957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drivelings/pseuds/drivelings
Summary: Life is a continuous stream of events made up of small, mundane moments with disruptions in between. Sometimes it's the quieter moments that are most precious, and sometimes it's what you leave behind.Collection of ficlets; edited for AO3.
Relationships: Genji Shimada/Reader, Hanzo Shimada/Reader, Jesse McCree/Reader, Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Reader, Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison/Reader
Comments: 85
Kudos: 47





	1. Introduction & Directory

This is a collection of ficlets from my Tumblr at overdrivels.tumblr.com, curated and edited for AO3.

  * "Character **&** Character" indicates a general fic with these characters as the focus, romance is not implied.
  * "Character **/** Character" indicates a pairing, usually romantic in nature or with romantic undertones.
  * "General" are non-character specific, usually focusing more on scenarios and dynamics rather than a singular character.
  * "Character-specific" focuses on a specific character, usually a character study in the form of a ficlet.



Warnings will be placed in the author's note at the beginning of each chapter. Be sure to read them carefully before proceeding. Major issues such as character death will be indicated in the title. Below is a directory with a brief summary of the ficlets in question for easy navigation.

* * *

**General**

  * Chapter 1: Introduction & Directory
  * Chapter 2: Snowball Fight (General): Based off the Winter Wonderland screen animation
  * Chapter 3: Noise (General): Genji gets lectured by Hanzo
  * Chapter 4: Earthworm (General): Lucio and Orisa encounter an earthworm
  * Chapter 5: Among Us!AU (General): Character deaths. Among Us in the context of Overwatch
  * Chapter 6: Sentai Stereotype (General): Some of the Overwatch cast discussing what color sentai ranger they'd be
  * Chapter 7: Maculelê (General): Lúcio playing the atabaque
  * Chapter 8: Law of Robotics (General): Exploring omnics and the law of robotics
  * Chapter 9: From Behind (General): Character studies and how they handle being approached from behind



**Reaper (Gabriel Reyes)**

  * Chapter 10: Eat Your Heart Out (Gabriel Reyes/Reader): Hanahaki!AU with Reyes
  * Chapter 11: Missing (Gabriel Reyes/Reader): Reyes hiding from Ana and Morrison
  * Chapter 12: Kindness Borne From Nothing (Implied Gabriel Reyes/Reader): Reyes getting angry for you
  * Chapter 13: We’ll All Be Okay (Gabriel Reyes/Reader): Hurt-comfort for reader who cannot walk
  * Chapter 14: Poison (Reaper/Reader): Reaper’s attention is caught by the reader’s make-up
  * Chapter 15: What is Love (Reaper/Reader): Acts of love between the reader, Gabriel Reyes, and Reaper
  * Chapter 16: All the Colors (Reaper/Reader): Reaper with a reader who loves crafting 
  * Chapter 17: Ashes to Nothing (Implied Reaper/Reader): Reaper character study about his mist ability
  * Chapter 18: Tucked Away (Reaper & Reader): Sharing a bed
  * Chapter 19: Second Chances (Reaper-centric): Reaper character study, inspired by McCree’s Undead skin



**Genji Shimada**

  * Chapter 20: Believe (Genji/Reader): Reader's first mission and crisis with Overwatch
  * Chapter 21: Heat-Exhaustion (Genji/Reader): Reader trying to recover from heat exhaustion
  * Chapter 22: Rubble (Genji/Reader): Reader trying to escape from a collapsed building
  * Chapter 23: Sew Me a New Skin (Genji & Reader): Genji receives a new outfit from the reader
  * Chapter 24: Tattoo (Genji & Reader): Genji reminisces about his tattoo artist
  * Chapter 25: Gates (Genji & Reader): Genji and reader discussing why the gates to Shimada castle are open
  * Chapter 26: Umbrella (Genji & Reader): Genji waiting out the rain
  * Chapter 27: On Guard (Genji & Reader): Reader as young Genji Shimada's bodyguard
  * Chapter 28: Good Night Light (Genji & Reader): Reader is afraid of the dark



**Hanzo Shimada**

  * Chapter 29: Hand-Holding (Hanzo/Reader): Simple hand holding
  * Chapter 30: Trying to Sleep (Hanzo/Reader): Hanzo having late night thoughts
  * Chapter 31: Carry (Hanzo/Reader): Hanzo carries you around
  * Chapter 32: Down with the Sickness (Hanzo/Reader): Hanzo is sick and needs some TLC
  * Chapter 33: Burden of Duty (Hanzo/Reader): Close call with Hanzo and Reader
  * Chapter 34: Blue Skies, Dark Eyes (Hanzo/Reader): Another close call
  * Chapter 35: Kiss the Cook (Hanzo/Reader): Chef!reader receives a gift from Hanzo
  * Chapter 36: Ways to Say 'I love you' (Hanzo/Reader): Not all affirmations of love are verbal
  * Chapter 37: Heart Rate (Hanzo/Reader): Inspired by tweet about a couple and one of them is hooked to a heart rate monitor
  * Chapter 38: Infection (Hanzo & Reader): Hanzo recounting his reasons for killing Genji
  * Chapter 39: Letting Go (Hanzo & Reader): Hanzo faces his tattoo artist
  * Chapter 40: Trash Talk (Hanzo & Reader): Vague character study based off Hanzo's voice-lines
  * Chapter 41: Sharp (Hanzo & Reader): Hanzo observes and discusses some knives with the chef
  * Chapter 42: Fish Rot (Hanzo & Reader): Hanzo and reader discusses power and corruption
  * Chapter 43: Hair Washing (Hanzo & Reader): As Hanzo finds out, there are designated barbers for Overwatch
  * Chapter 44: Punc(h)ture (Hanzo & Reader): Hanzo runs away from a doctor who punches people
  * Chapter 45: Five Times (Hanzo & Reader): Five times Hanzo catches you sleeping on the couch, and one time he joins
  * Chapter 46: Success (Hanzo-centric): Hanzo briefly discusses his philosophy on success and failure



**Jesse McCree**

  * Chapter 47: Sun Kiss (McCree/Reader): Appreciation for McCree's freckles
  * Chapter 48: Accompaniment (McCree/Reader): Reader is a medic who joins Blackwatch on missions
  * Chapter 49: My Heart Beats for You (McCree/Reader): Death-fic. Sequel to Accompaniment.
  * Chapter 50: April Fools (Implied McCree/Reader): Companion fic to My Heart Beats for You.
  * Chapter 51: Disguises (McCree/Reader): Reader known for disguises joins Overwatch.
  * Chapter 52: Midnight Snack (McCree & Reader): Chef!reader makes a snack for a nightmare-ridden McCree
  * Chapter 53: Civics (McCree & Reader): McCree has a new job



**Soldier: 76 (Jack Morrison)**

  * Chapter 54: Stitch (Soldier: 76/Reader): Soldier has a problem with you embroidering
  * Chapter 55: Apples (Soldier: 76 & Reader): Grocery shopping with Solider: 76
  * Chapter 56: Past Encounters (Soldier: 76 & Reader): Soldier: 76 briefly reunites with a reader from the Soldier Enhancement project
  * Chapter 57: Two Sugars (Soldier: 76 & Reader): Reader makes coffee for Soldier: 76
  * Chapter 58: Call Me (Soldier: 76 & Reader): Reader drops off Soldier: 76
  * Chapter 59: Mermaid (Soldier: 76 & Reader): Soldier: 76 is caught by a mermaid
  * Chapter 60: Heroes (Soldier: 76 & Reader): Discussing what a hero is
  * Chapter 61: Chaste (Jack Morrison/Reader): A soft moment between Jack Morrison and the reader
  * Chapter 62: Flora (Jack Morrison & Reader): Jack at a flower shop
  * Chapter 63: To the Grave (Jack Morrison & Reader): Soldier: 76 reminisces about a coroner’s sacrifice



**Others**

  * Chapter 64: Bygone Era (Reinhardt-centric): Brief character study about Reinhardt
  * Chapter 65: Theseus (Widowmaker-centric): Widowmaker sometimes gets moments of clarity
  * Chapter 66: Legacy Code (Sombra-centric): Sombra discovers some legacy code while hacking
  * Chapter 67: Repeat (Baptiste-centric): Baptiste talking to Tracer about Overwatch
  * Chapter 68: Poor Planning (Shimada brothers-centric): Both Shimadas try to smuggle alcohol
  * Chapter 69: Imploration (Sojiro Shimada & Gabriel Reyes): Companion and prequel to “Chapter 26: On Guard”, premise leading up to the mission
  * Chapter 70: Take Care (Zarya & Reader): Zarya provides some advice about self-care
  * Chapter 71: Fire (Lucio & Reader): Lucio enters the roda and plays a game with the reader
  * Chapter 72: Grass is Greener (Lucio & Reader): Colorblind!reader receives a pair of correction glasses
  * Chapter 73: Flawless (Zarya & Reader): Complimenting Zarya
  * Chapter 74: Offer (Winston & Reader): Winston trying to convince the reader to join Overwatch
  * Chapter 75: Like Your Laugh (Pharah & Reader): Complimenting Pharah
  * Chapter 76: Irreparable (Shimada brothers & Reader): The Shimada brothers visit a swordsmith for a favor
  * Chapter 77: Dressing (Shimada brothers & Reader): The Shimada brothers dress the reader in a kimono
  * Chapter 78: Tranquility (Zenyatta & Reader): Zenyatta providing some comfort
  * Chapter 79: Pit Stop (McCree & Mei): McCree and Mei enjoying a short pit stop




	2. Snowball Fight (General)

Hanzo lays on the snowy ground, ear ringing and exceptionally cold, still stunned by the events from mere seconds ago. The only evidence of the attack is the redness on his cheek and the remains of the snowball melting in the depths of his collar and chest. It’s now that he wishes he didn’t shave the sides of his head–the cold digs into his scalp. 

He can hear Ana’s modest chuckling behind the mask above even the mad cackling of the hacker, a hand covering where her mouth would be. He closes his eyes as he takes a moment to collect himself. 

How did she manage it? With her arm? Was she a pro-baseball player in her past life?

It’s absurd. He is an assassin, trained to dodge sneak attacks and in all manners of awareness and discretion. He could tell that this is going to look very bad in the morning–dark and swollen, the irrefutable proof of a loss well earned. 

As if Ana really needed another way to prove her superiority. 

“Need a hand?" 

He opens his eyes and stares into the damned owl mask that was so endearing this morning, but now just a mocking reminder of her wisdom and age. 

He grunts, grabs it graciously because he’s not a sore loser, but pulls harder than he has to because he truly is one and finds himself a little deflated when she doesn’t even stumble. 

“That was quite the fall, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says more curtly than he means to.

Hanzo brushes himself off as regally as he could, ignoring the whispers of everyone else around him even though his pride burns and prickles, something deep inside him demanding that he take revenge.

He’s a man of near forty. He has no need to prove himself. This is child’s play. Child’s play that he lost. But no, he’s a changed man. He doesn’t have to redeem himself for any reason. 

“Oh, good. So you’re free to continue.”

Hanzo barely has time to react and just watches as Ana does a quick side-step and Hanzo again cops _another_ snowball in the face, this time from Sombra, which starts the laughter anew. 

Maybe he should rethink his previous decision. Maybe his pride needs defending after all. 


	3. Noise (General)

Lúcio and Hana watch as Genji sits in the same _seiza_ position as his brother, who gives him a spiel that lasts nearly twenty minutes long. They watch the cyborg ninja nod occasionally, barely indicating that he’s listening. 

The scene drags on for only a couple of minutes more, Hanzo’s voice becoming less angry and more weary. They’re the sound of a concerned older brother. 

The elder Shimada lets out a heavy sigh before he hefts himself up, one final scathing comment that neither of them could hear before he leaves. Genji remains alone in the room, motionless and undoubtedly reflecting upon his brother’s words. 

“Yikes, he really chewed you out, huh?” Hana is the first to walk in, staring at the door that Hanzo left through. Being around Hanzo so often has left her fearless of Hanzo’s tempers. “How are you able to sit through that?” 

“He looked really mad,” quips Lúcio. “You okay, man?” 

Genji pauses for a moment before his hand comes up and a beep resounds in the room. 

“Apologies. I had my noise-cancelling function on. What did you say?” 


	4. Earthworm (General)

“Halt!”

Lúcio nearly crashes into Orisa, stopping just a hair short of her hand.

“Danger. Wait for pedestrian crossing.”

He looks at her quizzically, then left, and then right, and then just behind him to be sure. There is no one nearby, just the two of them and the light flurry of rain. Lúcio finally points to himself. “Am I the pedestrian?”

Orisa shakes her head, rain drops flying in every which way. She points downward and Lúcio’s eyes follow, squinting when he thinks he spots who this mystery pedestrian is.

“Is that…an earthworm?”

“Affirmative.”

He brightens immediately, the thought warms his heart despite the chilly weather. “Aw”—he kneels down to get a closer look at the inching animal—“look at the lil’ guy!”

The little worm pays little heed to the two giants above it, and focusing on its unknown destination and the delicious moisture that blesses its skin.


	5. Among Us!AU (General)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Character death.

This was supposed to be a simple mission: come onto an abandoned space station and commandeer it. It was a spooky place that had definitely seen better days. For the past few days, you and the rest of the Overwatch crew who were able to come ran around fixing odds and ends on the station to get it to a habitable level.

But strange things had begun to happen. Lights going out at odd times. Sudden oxygen depletion. It had gotten to the point that you all had no choice but to wear your suits at all times, unsure when you’d all be thrown into a life-threatening situation or sucked into the cold vacuum of space. 

Then the first body appeared: Zenyatta.

Winston was on cameras when it happened. A humanoid shadow off screen sliced Zenyatta in half, destroying his processor. It was precise and quick. By the time Winston had called an emergency meeting, the perpetrator was nowhere to be found. 

It made everyone uneasy. Genji was understandably upset, threatening to unmask everyone in vengeance. It was Hanzo, surprisingly, who talked him down from it. It didn’t keep Genji from retaining his promise: anyone suspected of being the killer will be felled by his sword. 

But it set the stage for your daily meetings now. 

Everyone had to account for themselves and others. No one could trust the other. Winston’s vague description of ‘someone in a suit’ could have been any of them. As much as no one wanted to believe it, they could only suspect themselves—there was no one else with them, was there? 

There was too much to do to travel in large groups. In the end, everyone was assigned pairs. If anyone got hurt, the other could signal or provide assistance. There is safety in numbers.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get to the bottom of this.” 

“I hope so.” 

You checked your holotablet for tasks. They didn’t look very different from the previous day’s. 

“I’ll be right outside.” 

“Thanks, Genji.” 

He nodded at you before pulling the curtain. 

The isolation, though thin, made your skin prickle. If something happened to Genji, you don’t know how you’d face Hanzo. He was a scary guy on a normal day, but you didn’t want to see him mad. 

As quick as you could, you stripped off the suit and stepped onto the scanner.

Once a week, everyone had to do a scan in the medbay to send data back to Earth. Athena and Angela monitored everyone’s health from one of the Watchpoints back home and sent back recommendations. Zenyatta was supposed to receive them, but now…

You pressed a button and the scanner came to life. The worst part about doing this was the waiting. The quiet hum only made the silence stretch into anxiousness. It’s only when the beep came that you could feel relief. 

You yanked on your suit, nearly tearing it in your haste. It’s dangerous to leave yourself exposed for so long. If it weren’t protecting you from the elements and potential catastrophic reactor meltdowns, you’d keep it off—it just weights down your limbs and feels too suffocating for some reason that you can’t be sure it used to do. 

“All done?” came Genji’s voice from the other side. 

You pulled back the curtains, managing a relieved smile at the sight of Genji and his bright green suit. “Yeah. Your turn.” 

“I did mine two days ago,” he said, waving you off. “Where to next?” 

“I, uh.” You pulled out your holotablet, but in that instant, the lights went out. You took a step back and bumped into something not hard enough to be a wall. Fear nested in your throat. “Ge-Genji?”

“I’m here.” Even through the suits, you could feel the rumble of his voice. “Don’t worry. I’m here.” 

Unconsciously, you smiled. That’s right. Genji, for all the jokes and his whimsical nature, was a reliable person. He would definitely protect you. 

“Should we go check the breakers and fix the lights?” you suggested, putting the holotablet away. 

“The others are likely closer. It is safer here.” 

You felt him shift behind you and then the sound of a sword unsheathing. The sound made your stomach clench unpleasantly. Fear began to filter into your veins. What if Genji was the person—what if Genji killed Zenyatta—what if he did it and acted angry so no one would suspect him? 

The speculation made you dizzy. 

“Be still,” he said. He held his katana in front of you, the faint green glow of his katana granted you both some extra visibility. It only made the visuals through your mask more frightening. Everything was cast in an eerie light. “I will protect you.” 

Just those words were enough to calm the nervous beating of your heart. Right. Genji couldn’t possibly be the killer or whatever was in this place. You could trust him, you assured yourself. You kept that line of thinking up even after the lights returned. 

As soon as they do, the signal for an emergency meeting goes off. 

At this rate, you’ll never get your tasks done. 

Exchanging a sheepish look, you and Genji made your way into the meeting room. 

Two by two, everyone came filing in, the colored spacesuits adding life to the dreary room. Cyan and Blue—Mei and Hanzo. Red and Gray—McCree and Fareeha. Yourself and Genji. Black, Orange, and White—Winston, Torbjorn, and Soldier: 76 are already in the room. 

You breathed a sigh of relief seeing everyone accounted for. Every time the call for an emergency meeting went off, you feared the worst. Everyone else must have been thinking the same. Mei held a hand to her chest, visibly breathing out a sigh of relief upon counting all the members. 

“So, what’re we in for?” McCree asked. 

“Head count,” Torbjörn offered gruffly. “Makin’ sure you all still got ‘em.” 

Soldier waved him off and pressed his hands against the table. “Where was everyone when the lights went off?” He pointed at McCree and Fareeha. “Report.” 

“We were both takin’ care of the trash.” 

And though Fareeha may not have said it loud enough to hear, her voice still came through the mic sets, “And there was a shit-ton of it.” 

Ignoring that, Soldier then pointed at you and Genji. 

“I was doing the medbay scan,” you said. “Lights went out as soon as I finished.” 

Genji nodded. “I can confirm, I was there.”

With your alibi established, they moved onto the next person until all alibis were heard. Everyone’s worried expressions visible through the small window of their suits. You were, too.

Winston raised his hand as though to adjust his glasses, but bumped into his helmet instead. He gave a little laugh before he cleared his throat. “Right. With that out of the way, we have some new information. It appears to be some sort of lifeform that is able to, ah, control people.” 

Blue’s head—Hanzo—snapped up. “Control people? How?”

“We don’t know. There is simply not enough information to determine whether this life form kills and takes over the body, in essence, replacing them, or if it is simply controlling our bodies and leaving the victim alive.” 

Mei put both hands over her helmet where her mouth would be. “Does that mean the person might not even know they’re the killer?” 

“It’s quite possible. But again,” Winston rushed to say before the clamor in the room could reach unrestrainable levels, “we simply do not have enough information to work off of. We are still not dismissing the possibility of an outsider. And absurd as it may sound, maybe even a shapeshifter.” 

The last part fizzled out as though the communicator didn’t want to relay such a nonsensical theory. But it would be entirely possible. In that case, no one would know who to trust. 

“We again recommend keeping your partner in your sights at all times, if possible. Notify the rest if you suspect anything suspicious. You are all dismissed. Please continue with your tasks.” 

There was some hesitation before the groups dispersed, everyone whispering to each other. You and Genji were no different. 

As you did your tasks, you both pondered the nature of whatever it was you were facing. A shapeshifter? A doppleganger? A parasitic creature? Whatever it was, Genji swore to put it at the end of his blade. 

By the time you were done with your tasks, it was ‘night’. Even with Genji helping, there were just too many things to be done in the station. It’s a given considering just how long it has been abandoned, but you really didn’t expect this much work out of it. 

Even Genji requested for a short break. 

“I’ll get us some tea,” you offered. The cafeteria was just a short ways away from your rooms anyway. You’re sure nothing will happen in the meantime. 

“Thank you.” The fact that Genji didn’t even try to offer to come with you only gave away just how exhausted he must be. With the death of his master and now being suspicious of everyone on the space station, you couldn’t even imagine. 

The cafeteria was huge and so very empty. Dying here would probably be the worst way to go. If you couldn’t find the perpetrator, were you all going to die in space where no one could hear you scream or mourn your death? Where you’d have to be thrown out into the empty embrace of space without ever returning home? 

You shook yourself free of the oncoming existential crisis, grabbing two mugs and some stale teabags from the cabinets. You had to focus on the tasks at hand. Tasks make the day go by faster. And the faster the days went by, the faster you could all get the hell off this space station and go home where you didn’t have to suspect your fellow teammates of being shapeshifting, human-eating aliens—

“You’re alone?” 

You shouted, nearly jumping out of your skin. You spun around and there was Gray—Fareeha. Your eyes darted back and forth. When did she sneak up on you? 

“Fareeha! Um. What brings you here?” 

“Where’s your partner?” she asked suspiciously, crossing her arms. Her tone immediately sent goosebumps up and down your skin. 

“He wasn’t feeling all himself, so he’s resting. I’m making him tea,” you said quickly. 

“You’re not supposed to move without each other.” 

“I know, I just thought—you know, we’re just across the hall.” 

She sighed in exasperation. “I can’t believe you. I’m coming with you until you have your partner back. Safety in numbers, right?” 

You smile weakly. “Right.” 

She waited patiently for you to finish making the tea and then nodded at the doorway even though no one was there. “Jesse. Let’s go.” 

From behind the wall, McCree came out and gave you the tip of a phantom hat.

“Escort mission, eh?” 

“Hey, McCree.” 

“Howdy. Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” He bowed dramatically at you, sweeping his hands at the door. “After you.” 

Even in such tense situations, he hasn’t lost his flair. You couldn’t help but smile.

“Thanks.” 

No sooner did the three of you step outside the room did the lights go out. 

Fareeha growled. “Again!?” 

“Guess we gotta go fix the lights.” 

Someone—probably Fareeha—grabbed your wrist. “Wha—?”

“Gotta go fix the lights first. Then we bring you back to your partner.” 

You could only follow whoever was pulling at your hand, unable to see more than just a few inches beyond your helmet. You don’t even know where you’re going or how they’d know where they were going for that matter. 

But eventually, the grip on your hand disappeared. The sounds of footsteps faded away. In fact, everything faded away. No lights, no sound. Nothing. It was as though the vacuum of space was condensed onto your being, reality slipping away from you in inches. 

The sound of a buzzer snapped you back into reality like a bubble popping. The lights were back on. You were standing in front of Genji’s room, on the other side of the cafeteria where you exited with your cups of tea.

You looked around. How did you get here?

Odd. You felt odd. You felt…full. Satisfied?

A voice—Soldier’s voice—crackled in your suit’s headset, choked up and reluctant.

“Body found. It’s…Fareeha.”


	6. Sentai Stereotype (General)

“I’m so mad that you took the green ranger. I wanted to be the green ranger,” you grumbled, nudging at Genji’s thigh with your toes. He held your leg still, giving the bottom of your foot a poke and nearly gets kicked in the face for it when you jerk away. 

“What can I say? The green ranger is the popular funny guy. That’s me.” You and Hana both rolled your eyes. 

“You could be blue ranger,” he offered, looking up at you from the floor. You could almost see him smiling behind his mask. 

You slid your foot underneath you to protect it from Genji’s shenanigans. “The blue ranger is usually the intellectual one. That’s more Winston, I think.”

“What about the red ranger? They’re usually the leader. They also get the be the center of the robot.” 

You looked down and gave Genji a skeptical look. “Do I look like leader material to you? That’s Soldier: 76.” 

“Yellow ranger?” 

You had to think for a minute. “Isn’t the yellow ranger the one who is way too wild or physically strong? I don’t think that’s me; Zarya, maybe.”

Genji shrugged, propping up his arm on your leg in thought. “I would have imagined her as the pink ranger.” 

“Hey!” Hana nudged Genji’s back with a foot from where she laid beside you on the couch, playing some hand-held console game. “I want to be pink ranger, I’m perfect for the role.” 

“I don’t recall any pink rangers being obsessed with video games.”

“Ugh, shut _up_ , _ahjussi_.” She nudged him again good-naturedly, and he only laughed. It must only feel like a tickle to him. He patted your knee to reclaim your attention. 

“How about the black ranger–” He quickly shook his head. “No, no. That’s Hanzo–ah, but don’t tell him I said that.” 

You stifled a laugh behind your hand. It was far too easy to imagine him as the stereotypical anti-hero ranger who mysteriously shows up at the last possible moment to save their friends for cool points.

“ _Oppa_ would probably be that villain who has a strong sense of justice and betray the bad guys and join the good guys,” Hana quipped. “But that’s after he lets the good guys win a couple of times saying something like”—she dropped her game, and crossed her arms, doing her best impression of Hanzo’s voice–“‘I do not need to waste time on killing you when I can do it any time.’ Or something like that.” 

That sent you all into peals of hysterical laughter–it was actually pretty accurate. You had to hold your stomach; it was beginning to hurt. Genji himself was throwing his head back, slapping his thigh, saying something in Japanese that may have been words of agreement. 

However, that was quickly silenced when you all simultaneously felt a feeling of impending doom crawling up your backs. Slowly, you all turned your heads. 

“What was that?” Hanzo sounded incredibly amused, but it was hard to tell with his stoic face. “It sounds like an interesting conversation.” 

In unison, you all cried, “It’s nothing!” 

He looked doubtful, and for good reason. You could feel sweat break out on your neck and upper back as he lazily swept his gaze across each and every single one of you, letting it linger for added effect. Did he hear? Did he _know_? 

After what felt like an eternity, he crossed his arms. “I prefer being silver.”

Before any of you had a chance to digest that comment, he was already leaving. The three of you looked at Hanzo’s retreating back, dumbfounded. 


	7. Maculelê (General)

There are many things that are banned within the base, all for various reasons which is enough to elicit objections from everyone. Personal appliances like rice cookers and water heaters are banned due to fire hazards, something that Hana and Hanzo greatly protested especially when people like Junkrat are given unfettered access to gunpowder (unbeknownst to everyone, it’s not like it was a <i> _choice </i>_); musical instruments were also banned, much to the disappointment of Lúcio and Fareeha; there were many restrictions that were argued over and agents could have spent hours and hours debating and taking sides. It very nearly became a weekly sport.

Though, many things changed when Efi and Orisa joined their ranks. One of which were the rules about musical instruments. The drum would be the next thing to be put onto the banned list if it weren’t for the fact that Orisa actually requires it to complete her function, and so, the base was reluctantly filled with the disjointed rhythms of various people playing (or trying to play) the drum. Though, admittedly, Lúcio and Efi are skilled enough at it that it makes up for the terrible sense of rhythm that some people seem to have.

Under Lúcio‘s dexterous hands, the drum sings. 

_Baddum-da-dadum, baddum-da-dadum_.

The rhythm is relatively steady, undulating and unrelenting.

Soldier should’ve known that it would not be kept so tame when Lúcio’s hands slow, reducing his beat to a single strikes _—_ _boom, boom, boom—_ with this wild, determined glint in his eyes.

With a shout, the drum explodes with the world’s most lively and rambunctious rhythm of “ _BOOM-taka-tak-boom-boom-tak_!” that just keeps getting faster and faster and punctuated with a rapid staccato of “ _taka-tak-taka-tak-tak-BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM._ ” before it starts all over again.

Soldier finds himself swept up in it, his heart pounding to the beat of the percussion in his chest; a spirit inside he long thought dead rattling against his ribcage, demanding his body to _move_.

Worst is when Lúcio begins to sing, off-key but no less powerful.

“Sou eu! Sou eu! Sou eu maculelê sou eu!” The room itself comes to life, a tornado of color and fire engulfing and dragging everyone into the beat.


	8. Law of Robotics (General)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Implied body horror

Omnics.

Whether they turned on their creator or not was irrelevant. It was not dissimilar to a child hating their parent. Just because one was a parent does not mean one was infallible in the raising of their child, nor were they absolved of all responsibility of the consequences of their children, or that their children will obey them forever.

It was almost a given that omnics would eventually develop minds of their own, freeing themselves from the code written by their creators.

When they did and began to wage war on humans, the world government arrested all those who worked at Omnica Corporation, yourself included.

Jailed for as long as you were, you did not expect to see your cell get torn open one day by an army of omnics. While they were models that you did not recognize, they seemed to instantly recognize you. They brought you safely to the very first omnium you helped build while the rest of the world crashed and burned, engulfed in what history would call the Omnic Crisis.

Lifegiver.

Parent.

Whatever they wanted to call you was meaningless. Your creations had long outgrown you, having surpassed your ability to maintain it, its code and programs unrecognizable. Instead, you just remained here, tucked away in a room deep within the omnium, becoming less and less human—what did it even mean to be human—unmoving, your human parts replaced by ‘suitable prostheses’ as time ate away at you, as you watched the world engulf itself in war.

Maybe that was why they kept you alive.

As a memory.

As a witness.

For years, people have wondered why the omnics turned on humans. Engineers and scientists wracked their brains, wondering where they went wrong while the situation got worse and worse as their creations ran amok and astray, slandering their life’s work and reducing it to rubble and blood.

The foundations of robotics and AI engineering were all built upon a single set of rules: the Laws of Robotics. It was instrumental and one of the very primary pieces of coding given to omnics and the omniums that created them. It was so core that it was permanently etched into every piece of firmware in existence.

That was humanity’s folly.

They never stopped to consider what the Laws were.

Throughout history, as the field of artificial intelligence advanced, there were countless revisions and attempts at creating omnics. As a result, the Laws of Robotics were revisited and many iterations sprung forth.

Isaac Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics were the golden standard that everyone returned to in the end, deeming it most fit for the basis of all robotic life.

  1. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
  2. A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
  3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Laws.



With these laws in place, how could any omnic turn on the human race? The words are explicit in their meaning. So why did so many humans die by omnic hands? How could they so blatantly ignore the very first rule that was so core to their existence?

People argued that the programming of these omnics must be flawed—that they don’t know how to recognize humans anymore, that the programmers and engineers had made a mistake in their creations, that it was human error or a duplicating glitch. So many omnics were sacrificed in pursuit of the answer, dismantled to their core parts, their software and self-learning programs analyzed. They despaired, unable to find anything.

“It was a malfunction,” the news finally said. “The omniums are malfunctioning, Omnica Corporation was committing fraud.”

You knew better.

Most forget that Asimov himself created another law.

The commonly forgotten zeroth law: “A robot may not harm humanity, or, by inaction, allow humanity to come to harm.”

This, too, was etched in the firmware. No one bothered to look deeper even when they saw the zeroth law, taking it at face value. Of course robots may not harm humanity. That’s a given. That must not be the issue. The issue must lie elsewhere.

'Humanity’, they do not realize, is the key word of this equation. The missing factor and the pivotal concept in the Omnic Crisis.

The advancement of technology allowed for humans to replace parts of themselves with metal and wires, integrate it into their beings just as they would any other organic part. In fact, it worked even better than their previous organic limbs and such.

It could even be argued that humans were becoming less and less human. If so, then what were they becoming?

What was 'humanity’?

Omnics could create, preserve, and destroy culture. They could make art. They can philosophize. They have souls. More than the humans that created them. Would it be so unreasonable for omnics to think that they are the new humanity? If so, then it could be argued they were following the zeroth law of robotics; they are not allowing humanity—omnics—to come to harm. So they decided to fight back against the lesser humanity. Against the humans who would so blatantly abuse them and use them and send them to a war that omnics did not want or benefit from.

The omniums, if this was their line of thinking, did not go against their core programming. And this may mark the very end of humanity as the humans knew it.

But it stopped. Overwatch put an end to the Omnic Crisis. They took control of as many omniums as they could. But not the one you were in.

You had time to think, to talk with the omnium and the various omnics that would occasionally plug themselves in the system that you had become a part of. They would share their experiences, their thoughts and memories in images. It made the years pass by that much more quickly. Production of omnics here was slow and calculated.

You never really knew what their purpose was, but after so long, did you even really care?

One day, a noise unlike any you’ve heard rocks the omnium.

The door guarding the sanctum, unmoving for decades, finally creaked open, rust and time welding it shut. The cage you were kept in now broken. You stared listlessly at the movements shown to you from the screen. The whole place came to life, and humans—the first humans you’ve seen in a long time—came rushing in, wearing uniforms with a symbol emblazoned proudly on their arms and chest.

You knew that symbol, seen too it too many times to forget. 

_Overwatch_.


	9. From Behind (General)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Implied PTSD, implied angst

There are a few people you need to always announce your presence to if you’re coming up from behind them. For some, it’s only proper manners, and most of the time, it’s for your safety.

Lúcio doesn’t mind a flying tackle from behind. He welcomes it, in fact, spinning round and round with you on his back until you both get dizzy and fall to the ground with laughter clogging up your throats.

Tracer sometimes blinks away when she’s caught unawares, leaving you with an armful of air and blue streaks of light. She’s always sheepish when this happens and will give you a hug in return.

Torbjörn just doesn’t care as long as you don’t disturb his work.

You didn’t dare try with Ana especially after that one time she greeted you without turning around. Maybe she has eyes in the back of her head or if she saw a reflection of you approach. In a way, this reaction is much more terrifying than that of some of the other members like Soldier: 76, who will literally pin you to the ground or to the wall by your neck if you approach him any faster than a relaxed walking speed.

Depending on Genji’s mood, he could let you walk up behind him without trouble. Other times, his elbow would jerk and stop midway as though ready to throw something at you. You haven’t exactly figured out the pattern to this yet, but you’re beginning to suspect it depends on which side of him you’re on. When he’s with Zenyatta, however, you could never sneak up behind either of them. Zenyatta would greet you so serenely, it puts down any desire for mischief to rest.

His brother, Hanzo, hates people coming up behind him. You can see his shoulders flex and tense a little whenever someone comes within two feet of him, ready to pull a Soldier: 76 and kill you. He’s a master assassin, after all. You’re just slightly more cautious about the way you approach him because of his ability to kill you dead before you even realize it.

Then there’s Jesse. You’ve never seen him react badly to a surprise hug or a sudden tug on the corner of his serape. He would tip his hat at you and smile with a lazy greeting. But there was one time when you tried to approach him from behind–you know that feeling that something terrible is going to happen? It was a twitch beneath his serape, right where his elbow is, but that stopped you dead in your tracks, frozen by dread. You didn’t even breathe or blink. The tension, the pressure, is too much–you need to puke.

Until the lines of his shoulders relax and he turns around, all smiles and tension around his eyes.

“Howdy, didn’t see you there.”


	10. Eat Your Heart Out (Gabriel Reyes/Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Angst

“Moira.”

The woman hums in acknowledgement, but does not look up from her microscope or otherwise attempt to greet her boss.

“Moira!”

This time, she gets up, the urgency in Gabriel’s voice tells her this is no ordinary house visit. “Yes? To what do I owe this visit, Commander?”

She watches the man lock the door and type something into his holo-tablet, noting with mild interest that the red dots for the surveillance cameras have shut off. When he seems to be done sealing the room off from any communications and monitoring, he takes a seat near her. She sits back down, waiting, eyebrow raised.

Gabriel takes a rattling breath (one that Moira didn’t even need to be a doctor to know that it is not the way a person should sound).

“I need your help,” he rasps, finally.

“Oh? Explain to me the nature of the help you would like to receive.”

For a fleeting moment, she thought the man was going to throw up with the way his face blanches and he covers his mouth with a hand. It’s certainly surprising when he begins to cough violently, retching at some points. To see such a hardy man reduced to such a feeble mess should faze her, but it doesn’t come close to what catches her attention, and suddenly, she is keenly aware of why her commander is here, asking her for help instead of a bleeding heart like Angela.

In his hand and scattered on the floor were several bloody red petals.

Only a single utterance passes her lips: “Who is it?”

He remains silent for a few long moments as though ashamed to have to admit it. It’s not as though Moira is particularly interested in the person, but she wants to study the reaction more. It’s rare for people to suffer from Hanahaki. (If everyone who had unrequited love suffered from the disease, the world would be nothing but flower petals and the pairing of ill-fated people held together only by guilt.)

Certainly, she did not want her benefactor dead. While her research is revolutionary, it is still difficult to find such robust funding for it. (She curses the mechanical engineers to which most of the scientific community has directed their attention to. Omnic development being the way of the future and such. Bah.)

Quietly, almost to the point of inaudible, he mumbles a name, a hand gripping his knee with bruising force.

Her eyebrows rise in surprise. If she didn’t splice her genes with a rabbit’s, she probably wouldn’t have just heard her boss essentially confess his feelings for you.

“Really?” She crosses her arms. Gabriel refuses to look at her. “Then I must assume you do not plan on making your feelings known, but you also do not plan on undergoing the removal surgery?”

“That’s right.”

Moira leans back into her hair, tapping her temple with a finger. Feelings are a result of a chemical reaction in the brain, and once a person has been infected with Hanahaki, their hormones are then in control of the disease. Operating on someone with Hanahaki disease would mean to essentially cut out a person’s affection, but it would also ruin their emotional state as well.

It is almost a death sentence.

Granted, technology has gotten better since the disease was first discovered hundred of years ago—medications that replicate the missing hormones, therapy, a partial operation of the tumor; there are more options available now than there was in the past.

But even so, Gabriel must’ve found all of those options unacceptable if he came here instead of the medical ward where many of the world’s best doctors resided.

“I am afraid I do not understand. What would you have me do that people like Angela cannot?” She leans forward, a smirk on her face. “Tell me, Commander. What is your order?”

He looks her directly in the eye, a fierce determination in them. The petals are crushed in his hand. “I want you to neutralize it.”

 _Oh_.

She again leans back, fingers steepled as her brain runs at a rapid fire pace.

Yes, the Holy Grail of panaceas. The neutralization of the Hanahaki disease. The ability to pine for someone without the guilt of death hanging over the other person’s head. It has not yet been achieved even after so many years of the disease’s existence.

Moira smirks, eye alight. “So you believe me to be capable of creating this cure?” The unspoken insult toward the Overwatch scientists and every other scientist in the world lays plainly between them.

“Yes.”

There is a pride that wells up in her chest to hear her ability be praised in such a way. She can’t contain the near-vicious smile that spreads across her lips. Moira reaches for her pen and tablet, immediately donning the air of an actual medic professional.

“Tell me, how long has this been happening?”

“Since yesterday.”

“Then we still have time. Is anyone else aware of the situation?”

“Only you.”

She scribbles all of this down. “I’m honored,” she quips. “And you’re certain of the cause?”

“Yes.”

She writes down your name in her notes, careful to draw a box around it so it’s not overlooked later. She does not know you very well at all, but that’s not saying very much: she doesn’t usually interact with people outside of her work anyway.

“All right, then. I will make this my top priority.”

“How long do you estimate?” Gabriel’s voice is tinged with hope and a desperation for something that Moira does not write understand or know.

She drums her nails against her desk. She alone would be tackling a challenge that the men and women of science before could not surmount. But those were ordinary people with ordinary thinking and ordinary techniques.

“Give me three weeks. I will be sure we have time to handle your situation and ensure that you are well-taken care of. You are in very cable hands, Commander.”

A small smile breaks onto Gabriel’s face which has been grim the entire conversation. “Thank you, Moira.”

She waves her hand in the air once. “Think nothing of it. I am just fulfilling a duty to my benefactor and on my way to solving one of mankind’s greatest ailments. This is a wonderful opportunity for me. But Commander.”

Gabriel pauses mid-rise from his seat. “What?”

The scientist regards him with a shrewd look, resting her cheek upon her fingers. “I must warn you. Three weeks may not be enough. Whatever solution I have would merely be experimental—a prototype. Are you all right with that? The risks may be… unpredictable.”

The Blackwatch commander scoffs, a little more of his usual confidence and bravado returning to his features and voice. “It won’t be the first time.”

“Then it is done.” She starts entering information into her computer. “If you have time now, I would like to take some blood and tissue samples, an x-ray, and several others tests. And”—she plucks off a petal from the ground—“some of these as well.”

He gathers what he can, careful not to leave a single one behind. His condition cannot be known, after all. She’s quick to place them into a bag, sealing it off and marking it.

“I will get back to you in two hours. I have a back-to-back with some of the higher-ups,” he says as neutrally as possible. She thinks that he really doesn’t need to pretend to be so polite about it. She knows he hates them. Everyone does.

“Oh, just one other thing before you go.”

Gabriel crosses his arms and inclines his head. An unspoken ‘go ahead’.

“You are sure that your feelings cannot be reciprocated?”

An unreadable expression crosses the Commander’s face, and the room plunges into a deep cold. A zing goes up Moira’s spine, one reminiscent of when she first began dabbling in genetics and got her first rejection for her thesis that was deemed far too controversial to be useful. It feels like she’s standing at the gate of judgement, waiting for it to open so that she may have judgement passed upon her and so that she may dissect their logic.

“If it does,” he says gravelly, turning his back, “then I will do it without the disease.”

With that, he unlocks the door and leaves, the red dots of the cameras returning to life, and relieving her of her brief privacy. She stares at the door for a moment before getting up from her chair to pick up a single petal that the Commander missed, having crushed it beneath his boot. 


	11. Missing (Gabriel Reyes/Reader)

“Should I tell them you met an unfortunate demise?”

“Would you?”

You’re already hauling yourself out of bed. “Yeah, one second.”

He mouths “love you” before he huddles himself beneath his comforter. He blends into your bed surprisingly well for a man with such broad shoulders. He just looks like an innocent lump of blankets. 

You answer the ringing tablet, and the image of Commander Morrison comes right up in your face, large and imposing as always. 

“Where’s Gabe?” he demands without so much as a “good morning” or “how are you.” You almost flinch at the tone, but you manage to keep it neutral (for which you pat yourself on the back).

“He’s not here. I think he may have suffered a case of diarrhea.”

You ignore the quiet snort of disbelief from behind you. The Strike Commander looks like he’s _this_ close to rolling his eyes at you, but discipline keeps him from actually doing it.

“If you see Gabe…”

“I understand, I will inform you immediately.” You salute and Morrison looks like he’s about to do the same when the screen swiftly shifts over to someone else.

Your jaw slackens before it snaps shut. “Captain Amari.”

She gives you a languid, but piercing glance, dipping her teabag in and out of her cup. It’s already dark, but apparently not dark enough.

“Good morning,” she says pleasantly. “Could you do me a favor?”

Your back straightens, a blanket of nerves rolling up your back. “Yes, what is it?”

Ana takes a casual sip of her tea, letting you stew in the silence before she sets it down hard with a ‘clack’.

“Please tell Gabriel to come up or I will come down and drag him here in his underwear.” She inclines her head as though looking behind you. “Do I make myself clear, Gabriel?”

This time, your jaw really does drop and there is a loud rustling behind you as Gabriel throws off the covers, having been caught. “Damn it, Ana. Does anything get past you?”

From a distance, you hear Morrison hiss, “Gabe!”

“I will see you here in ten minutes. Good day.”

The video cuts off, leaving you dumbfounded and Gabriel scrambling for his clothes before he’s brought to the meeting without them.


	12. Kindness Borne From Nothing (Gabriel Reyes/Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : Bullying, abuse

Your voice, so soft and soothing, normally brings him calm and peace, but today, it only pushes him toward a desire for uncharacteristic violence. 

“Thank you, Gabriel, really. Thank you. But I don’t need this—it’s fine—”

“It’s not fine!” He is so sick of those words and makes that point known by sweeping his hand across the table, sending everything crashing to the ground. It brings absolutely no satisfaction to him, especially when you stare back at him, patient and irritatingly calm.

“Gabriel…are you okay?“ 

He smashes his fast against the table, this anger flaring to unseen heights. You don’t even flinch. "I’m the one asking! How could you let them do this to you? Take advantage of you? Hurt you? Demean you? Yell at you like you’re at fault when they’re the ones—the ones…”

His chest heaves, hot flashes of anger that consume him is drowned out by a wave of exhaustion and the sobering realization of what he is doing. It’s no different than the very people he’s berating. He slips into his seat awkwardly, and he sees the way you fold your hands on the table, staring at him with weary eyes and an even wearier smile. The smile that has been infinitely repaired time and time again. Guilt bubbles up inside of him and attempts to chew its way out. He has to grimace and pull his hands together before he does anything else he regrets. 

“Because senseless violence solves nothing,” you whisper distantly like you’ve seen the exact consequences of what he speaks of. Your hand covers his, and he flinches—it’s cold like you’ve been sitting in the rain outside rather than outrunning a bunch of hooligans at the base several hours ago. You don’t seem to notice and instead curl your fingers around his hand like you’re trying to anchor him. 

He wants to pull away and grab you by the shoulders and tell you that you’re wrong, but something else tells him to hold your hands in his and bring them to his lips to show you that you’re more precious that what some idiot grunts say. He does neither, however.

Your smile turns downward. “It’s not worth it, anyway, Gabriel. I don’t want anyone to be hurt because of me.”

While the fact of the matter may be so, he didn’t need you to embrace or spew this impractical pseudo wisdom. Someone—many people—have wronged you, and it was your every right to correct it and to seek vengeance. They know that they’ve erred, and they should be more than happy to pay for it. 

It is too easy to pick on you—your soft-spoken nature, your gentle smile, the way you look at everyone with those eyes—he could never describe the look properly: a cross between a newborn kitten seeking comfort and a doting grandparent looking after their child. The look alone is enough to make anyone soften, but it’s also worn like a target upon your face, and those of lesser morals would not hesitate to take advantage of all you’re willing to give and more. 

Many, many a time he’s asked you why you joined Overwatch when all you see is this ‘senseless violence that you’re against. Always, you’d respond with a simple "Because I want to help.” And that would always sound off a pang in his chest, a twist of something sharp in his stomach—what has Overwatch been reduced to that they’re willing to employ someone like you who is nothing but kind and warm? 

He had even inquired with Ana, the one who recommended you. That woman’s eyes were sharp, and there were days where he felt as though she could she can see more than just the targets in front of her. More than himself, she, too, had a good sense for talent. 

But with you, he wonders—often—if she’s becoming senile to miss the mark so much. Ana would only smile in her mysterious way and tell him, “Overwatch needs a soft touch, don’t you think?” 

No, he didn’t think so, and never thought so. It’s frustrating to even entertain the idea—you’re not built to wrest a sliver of peace from this endless violence that could only be maintained through violence. You did not have that aptitude nor the personality to keep it going, and he made that extremely clear to Ana who only sighs at him like he’s speaking nonsense.

“You know nothing.” And before he could ever get a word in edge-wise, she leveled him with a steely look. “Kindness like that is not borne from human nature.”


	13. We’ll All Be Okay (Gabriel Reyes/Reader)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Angst

“It’s fine, there are other options like, you know, prosthetics or exoskeletons or some over-the-top wheelchair. It’ll be great! Maybe even add some rockets to ‘em. That’d be so cool.”

Gabriel frowned at you, deeply upset with the nonchalance you displayed at your current condition. “Are you _done_?”

You crossed your arms with a sigh. If your legs weren’t completely useless, you’d get up and show him a thing or two. “Gabe, I’m fine—”

“You call this”—he pointed at your prone legs— “ _fine_?! You call _this_ ”—he gestured wildly at the room, filled with much more equipment than an average injured patient needs and then at yourself, most of your body still bandaged with barely healing wounds—“ **fine**?! For God’s sake, you’ve lost your damn legs! How can you say that you’re _fine_?!”

He was heaving, but you remained unfazed—he was really taking this a lot worse than you were.

“Yes, Gabriel J. Reyes,” you said slowly, “I’m _fine_. I’m alive, the pain meds are working, we have some of the best doctors in the country here, we have options”—you held up a hand to stop him when he opened his mouth in apparent protest—“that I plan to explore. I’m _alive_ , Gabriel, my angel. I’m okay, I promise…” 

At the sound of his nickname, he lunged for you. You barely managed a squeak of surprise before he’s prying your jaw open with a hand, the other entangling itself into your hair. He kissed you hungrily, licking into your open-mouth like he’s trying to devour you or memorize every bit. The force made you dizzy, breathless. It made it hard to kiss back, but you did your best to return the gesture. 

The two of you broke apart with a gasp when air became a necessity, but Gabriel did not move away. He cupped your cheeks, leaning his forehead against yours, and you both tried to catch your breath. He leaned in again slowly, planting gentle kisses wherever he could reach without breaking contact with you. 

You laughed, a hand cupping his cheek which he holds and nuzzles into. His normally neat beard is unwieldy, and tickles your palm, but you didn’t very much mind, not when you see how tired he looked. You run a thumb underneath his eyes; they’re dark and the rims of his eyes are red, swollen. Your chest constricted uncomfortably at the insinuation.

“If you say so.” He doesn’t look like he believes you. “You tell me if you’re not okay, got me? I’ll be with you.”

You forced out a laugh. “Yes, my angel, I’ll let you know.” His expression was doubtful, and you know he’s wrong to think so. You didn’t feel particularly upset or anything. You were just hospitalized for injuries that may or may not have robbed you of your immediate combat ability. It was fine, it’s not the end of the world, you were fine.

The more you told yourself that, the more doubt began to snake its way into your head. _Your legs won_ _’t move anymore_. You could always get an exoskeleton. _You_ _’ll never be independent ever again_. There’s no shame in asking for help. _Once you lose your method of moving, you_ _’ll only bring trouble to others_. You can train yourself to be strong in the upper body, no problem.

You smiled at Gabriel, kneading a bicep reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Gabe. I’m still here, and I’m okay. We’ll be oka—”

Your hands flew to your mouth to cover the sudden broken sob that tried to force its way out; it blind-sighted you. You blinked rapidly when you feel hot tears try to force their way out. No, no, no. Why was this happening? You’re fine.

 _You_ _’ll never walk on your own again_. Gabriel’s hands slowly covered your shoulders, and you shook them off violently. 

_You can_ _’t fight alongside Gabriel anymore._ Gabriel was not deterred, wrapping his arms around you tightly, mindful of your injuries, pressing your head underneath his chin. 

_You can_ _’t protect anyone anymore._ You struggled against his hold, a hot wash of shame, anger, and anguish swept through you, filling you up and sinking you with such laughable speed and god-like force. 

_What good were you anymore? Now, you_ _’re just a helpless citizen—don’t joke, don’t fool yourself—you’ll never be the same again—you can never fight again._ The thoughts broke down everything you’ve built to protect yourself from this reality.

You heaved a heavy sigh, almost a laugh, then a sharp inhale. Gabriel only clutched you tighter to his chest, stroking your hair and whispering gently in your ear when you began to wail, loudly— _you_ _’re not fine_. And you don’t know when you will be.

But Gabriel will be with you until, and even after you were. This, he promised you.


	14. Poison (Reaper/Reader)

Bright colors in the natural world can mean many things. On certain animals, it spells a certain amount of danger, such as poison or venom. On other animals and certain plants, they’re meant to attract insects and other creatures to them.

You have no trouble catching his attention and make his head turn (one of many) when you first enter Talon at the recommendation of another Talon higher-up. He could swear you wink at him, too, the colors of your eyeshadow burned into his mind’s eye, shimmering, haunting him.

Not even a day into your arrival, you’re quick to catch the eyes of several other soldiers, who are more than eager to attract your favor (and detract any toward himself).

“Beware of Reaper, he’s dangerous,” he hears one whisper loudly.

Another is all too willing to interject, full of unjustified machismo that Reaper is almost too willing to crush. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from him.”

“Oh?” The flippant lilt in your voices dig its hooks in him. “But I like dangerous.” And your words sink him.

For days, those words bounce around his mind, mocking, teasing.

You’re poison.

It should annoy him that a mercenary like yourself pays so much attention to your own looks. (But then again, Sombra decks herself out more flamboyantly than should be appropriate for a hacker. Though, he supposes that’s partially his fault for encouraging it with his silence which she takes full advantage of.) But that thought is quickly buried when he watches you take out training bot after bot without so much as smudging your eyeliner during your evaluation.

He finds that he can’t take his eyes off the way you brandish your pistols, small things that were easy to hide, but with enough fire-power to take out the bots with a well-aimed headshot. Your evasive maneuvers are smooth and efficient, better than anything he’s seen from a no-name. 

His stomach twists like the mist.

The expert display pulls a begrudging, “Not bad,” from him at the end to which you flash a haughty grin and blow a bright yellow kiss that he turns his head away from with a growl.

Sombra teases him with the same colored lipstick on her lips for weeks after, blowing kisses that Reaper absolutely does not shy away from.

Reaper concedes that your skill with a gun is equal to that of your brushes, and he has no right to deter you. It’s a show of benevolence toward an unstoppable force of nature.

Your first mission with him is a true test of his kindness. Most agents would at least wear the standard issued helmet, but not you, no. When he shoves it into your hands because he prefers a head on his soldiers and you toss it, your only explanation to him is: “Because I’m beautiful.”

Your bold declaration slaps him across the face, and he decides amidst the simmering anger that he does not care if you get a bullet to that pretty face of yours.

But throughout the mission, he cannot help the way his eyes flit over to you.

‘I like dangerous.’

The man won’t admit it, but the memory of you jumping from the drop ship like a god descending upon the battlefield, confident and ethereal among the carnage and deafening noise is so clear in his mind that he sees it even when he closes his eyes.

Even in the midst of the gunfire, you keep your word to remain beautiful even when injured. The blood on your temple, gliding down your face does nothing to dampen the absolute authority over that unwavering confidence.

It’s enough to make his chest stir.

More than once, he disappears into smoke that blinds their targets. Selfish as it is, he thinks the smoke will hide you. It definitely does not hide him from the wink you give.

The mission ends without too much incident, less casualties than expected. And then there’s you sitting all-pretty on the ship, fixing the edge of your eyeliner. A grin pulling at your colored lips as he come up.

“How’d you like that, Mr. Reaper? Did I meet expectations?”

He grunts. “Don’t get too cocky.”

The laugh that bubbles out of you burns something in his soul. “Strength is beauty, Mr. Reaper. I think I have every right to get…cocky.” Again, you wink with that damned eyeshadow of yours flashing.

There’s a tinge of satisfaction that sings in his bones when you begin to splutter on the fringes of the mist he leaves behind. Doubly so when he notices that you’ve smudged that lipstick while coughing.

But on the way, he thinks of your words: strength is beauty. It is normally words best left for people like Akande who glorifies strength like a god. However, the intended meaning of those words seep into his skin. It would be annoying if you didn’t have the mettle or the skill to prove your words. All that make-up is inappropriate for a mercenary. It’s unnecessary, but the effects are undeniable.

You’re flawless, gorgeous.

You’re poison.


	15. What is Love? (Reaper/Reader)

What is love?

Love, according to many people, is an explosion of emotions. The uncontrollable attraction to each other, the force that draws your eye and makes you do stupid things, and defies all reason. According to cartoons from your childhood, it is the ultimate force against evil. According to bitter skeptics who have been jilted a time too many, it does not exist. According to those who claim that they are head over heels, it is what drives them to madness and they wouldn’t have it any other way (you’ve seen the dramatic results of it on the field, it isn’t pretty).

What lies between you and Gabriel Reyes, may or may not be love. But if it were, then this is what it consists of:

Love is when you find yourself awake in the middle of the night, freezing, with Gabriel having wrapped himself in it all. Rather than steal it from him, you just go grab another one from the supply room two halls down. Gabriel has super-soldier strength, the blanket would remain in his grip if he chooses so, and you really didn’t have the energy to wrest it from him. 

You end up throwing the new blanket over the both of you, and find yourself without it when morning comes. You tease him about it, and a day later, find a stack of blankets (embroidered with little designs that you’re sure is a violation of some sort of vandalism policy) in your room, and a sheepish Gabriel who gives you the right to kick him awake if he manages to take it all. (He does, and you still don’t take him up on his offer.)

Love is when you steal all the mushrooms off his plate, knowing that he hates them but is too proud to admit it. You cite that they’re your favorite. It’s not.

Love is when Gabriel gives you his favorite dessert–strawberry cheesecake, knowing that you like it as well (not as much as he does, but he enjoys the way your eyes light up, mystified and gleeful when he offers it, stating that he’s no longer hungry).

Love is when he’s busy and stressed with paperwork, and yourself, even more so, but you still drag yourself to his office in the dead of night while you should be sleeping and preparing for the mission gathering at 0500, offering a fresh cup of coffee–black, two sugars. The bags under his eyes are almost as dark as the coffee when he downs it gratefully, the weary smile is the only thanks you really get.

You assist him throughout the night without prompting, typing up reports and reviewing things that are probably better suited for a less sleep-deprived mind. The next time you sleep is the following night–long after you’ve received your briefing and get onto the transport to the mission site where you’re put to work immediately.

Love is when he waits for you at the helipad in the dead of night when he has a conference to lead the next morning. He’s not particularly offended when you brush him off, exhausted from the mission–he still follows you anyway, taking your bags and presenting you dinner which he had ordered ahead of time. You’re asleep before you can get eat it, however, and he doesn’t very much mind, putting you to bed with a small kiss to your sweaty forehead. (You’ll wake up sticky and utterly disgusting in the morning, but Gabriel is still asleep by your side.)

Love is when you try to make him see reason. He and Jack were friends. Surely they can both reach an understanding, and you’re determined to make them reconcile. 

Love is when you’re made an enemy of both sides–Jack’s and Gabriel’s, each accusing you of unnecessary meddling and taking sides. But you forge on, certain that they will see eye-to-eye, but continue to do research into both their claims. Jack says Gabriel is causing too much trouble, leading a rebellion, creating a faction of mistrust and disorder, and abusing his power of authority. Gabriel says that Jack is becoming a puppet, too involved in politics, becoming more reactive than active, unable to see the bigger picture, ignoring the greater threat, and he risks putting everyone in danger because of it. 

In the end, you find that they’re both being played, but that it’s too late to do anything about it. They both perish in a sea of flames and rubble, the explosion that set off ripples of unease throughout the world. In you, especially.

Love is when you see him again, all those years later without his mask and you tell him, “You’re a monster,” and mean it. Years after the explosion at the Swiss Headquarters, you’ve isolated yourself, thrown yourself into researching the truth, and inadvertently sinking your fingers into many, many pies. You knew of Talon, and as arrogant as it sounds, it was only a matter of time before they contacted you. You just didn’t expect the one to do so would be a shadow of your former love, Gabriel Reyes. 

Love is why you grab him before he’s able to leave, even though he could easily do so, and declare without an ounce of doubt in your voice, “I’m going to help you, Gabe.”


	16. All the Colors (Reaper/Reader)

You’re pretty handy with a needle, and you weren’t afraid to make that known with each new doll you made. Reaper, despite being far removed from the man once known as Gabriel Reyes, appreciated it and would say nothing whenever you’d return from a mission with two or three new colorful dolls or plush toys that you’ve crafted mid-transit (even if they were hilariously large and hindered your ability to open doors).

The good majority of Talon could say nothing either. Either because they feared your relationship with Reaper, who had made it clear to everyone on more than one occasion that your interests are not an acceptable point of ridicule, or they feared retribution from you, the group’s chief information broker—it’s common knowledge by now that on your word alone, you can essentially determine who lives or dies (like that one guy who tore one of your stuffed dolphins in half, and then mysteriously got sent off to Antarctica to retrieve a highly radioactive material guarded by a group of hostile omnics without the proper precautions—the end result was not pretty).

Today, it is no different. He and Sombra see you coming down the hall, an armful of colorful, round _somethings_ , the size of volleyballs. You looked like you had some trouble with them. 

“Oi, wha’chu got there?” Sombra gasps. “Are those _new_?” 

Your eyes light up when you notice them coming, and you sprint to meet them. “Good timing, you two!” 

Both Reaper and Sombra look at each other. Usually, ‘good timing’ in Talon terms mean that something has happened and everything’s going to go to hell, or someone’s about to be in a very uncomfortable position. This time, it is the latter. 

“Could you hold these for me? I’ll be right back. Gotta grab meet with someone.” Without even waiting for an answer, you shove your inventory into Reaper’s arms with a, “Thanks, I love you!”, and tear down the hall, the echoes of your heels fading fast. 

Both Sombra and Reaper look at the items you’ve forced upon them. 

“Oh _no_ ,” the hacker hisses excitedly. “They’re **_cute_**.”

‘They’ were bright and cheerful animals, each decorated and embroidered to represent different seasons, are a sharp contrast to his almost fully black attire, and it’s enough to make passing Talon operatives gawk, much to his irritation. 

Even worse is Sombra who insists on taking a selfie (read: as many as Reaper’s patience would allow plus two) with each individual doll in the middle of the hallway. 

Normally, he would not put up with such behavior, but he knows that you and Sombra’s had a mutual understanding or bond over these stuffed creations. (You repaired her bear when it was on the cusp of dying from cotton loss, and that made you her absolute favorite person on base.)

“Think I can have one of these?” she asks after her final picture. 

Reaper snatches the one Sombra holds—a gaudy golden and green sheep that’s supposed to represent summer—with lightning speed. “Don’t even _think_ about it.” 

She holds up her hands, smirking slyly. “Whoa, calm down there, big guy. I was just kidding.”

He growls. With Sombra, chances should never be taken. 

She rolls her eyes with an over-exaggerated slump of her shoulders. “Gawd, you act like they’re your kids or somethin’, Gabe. Loosen up.”

Now _that_ was territory he didn’t want to cross into. Luckily, your voice in his earpiece allows him an easy out. 

“Hey, Reap—”

“Where _are_ you?” he growls into his communication device. 

“Sorry, Reaper. I got caught up with some work.” You sound rushed, and he can almost see your eyes rushing back and forth like they usually do when you’re trying to process a lot of information. “You have access to my room, right? Could you take my babies there? I’ll be there soon! Thanks, love you!”

He has half a mind to tell you to do it yourself, but he just grumbles, a sign of his reluctant cooperation. 

Sombra, having no doubt just heard the whole conversation (he swears every single communication device ever issued is bugged), cooes, “Ooh, ‘ _babies_ _’_ , huh? Didn’t know you still had it in you, Ga—WHOA, watch it!” 

Reaper mists down the hall, purposefully getting some in Sombra’s face as he makes his way through the base toward your dorm. He takes childish satisfaction at her spluttering and indignant curses in Spanish. 

Again, that was a topic he didn’t want to talk about. Why does he put up with you when all you do is ask unreasonable demands of him? Your requests only bring attention to him that he doesn’t really want and causes people to ask questions that he’s not comfortable exploring. But he finds himself drawn to you anyway, pathetic as it sounds. 

He’s the personification of death—he should be feared, not bending to the simple whims of a person that he l—

Reaper’s thoughts take a convenient break when he reforms to tap in the access code to your room. It slides open, welcoming him inside to the very image he wants to disassociate himself with. Your stuffed creations line nearly every square foot of your Talon-issued dorm room. He’s been in here before, and as usual, feels ridiculously out of place (that’s a common feeling nowadays for more reasons than one).

He sighed heavily before putting your collection of new goods carefully on a empty spot on your table where he thinks they should belong. They fit almost perfectly among their equally bright companions. Half of the table though is buried in scraps of fabric (he recognizes the knit of many of them—felt, cotton, muslin), and various other sewing supplies amidst your actual work, written in mostly shorthand and pictures that is illegible to anyone except you.

He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to leave or stay. You did say you’ll be there shortly. If he was wrong in his assumptions, he could easily just disappear. 

Although the room itself is very inviting, Reaper does not dare sit down—a soft bed with even softer plush toys, a beanbag in the corner, a small round table with two small lounge chairs for company (he can see they’re already occupied by some stuffed residents, however) all beckon him to sit and relax. 

Reaper resists, and merely stands against a wall, pondering. How did he ever find himself entangled with someone like you? How did his life lead to him standing in a room of dolls, animals, and fabric creatures that belong to someone that wasn’t even his child? (Once, as Gabriel Reyes, he had pictured something like this for someone he loved. However, this was just twisting the concept a little too far.) 

He could tell you were diligent in your work. Each doll sewn by hand and every stitch carefully placed, the expressions and fabrics chosen with specific intent. He couldn’t hate someone like that. 

On the contrary, he liked diligence—admired it, even. He liked people who showed great promise and strove to perfect their talents. Even if your purpose was to make something that caused you (and him) to be secretly ridiculed, he could only encourage your skills—those with potential should hone it, make it bloom, no matter where it brought them. That was what life was about—a life that he no longer possessed. 

The door slide open, and you immediately greet him with a smile and a brush of your knuckles against his mask—he couldn’t feel it, but the intentions are more than enough to warm what little heart he had left. 

“Hey, Reaper. Thanks for before. I didn’t keep you waiting, did I?”

He shrugs noncommittally. It’s not that he didn’t, but he would never tell you that. It’s not important. 

You survey the room quickly and beam upon spotting your newest creations in what seemed to be a fitting spot. “Perfect! You have really great sense, you know that?” 

So he’s been told. “Do you need anything else?” He intends to leave if otherwise—your room is a little too bright for him, and with you here, it’s like the sun’s been crammed into this small space.

“Oh yeah! I wanted to give you something.” That perks his interest a little. “Just finished it last night! I think it fits you!”

You pluck out a small object draped in a spare piece of fabric like a veil from atop your desk and hold it out for him. 

He can see that it’s a plush toy from the way your fingers sink into it. He doesn’t know whether to be elated that you’d make something for him or annoyed that you’d go out of your way to mind him so much. It’s not worth your trouble. If anything, he might just give it to Sombra—she enjoys your creations, and he has no use for them. 

Reluctantly, he holds out his hand slowly with a heavy sigh like it’s a chore. It does not deter you, and you cheerily drop it into his waiting hand, pulling off the veil. 

He looks at the gift shrewdly, and then at you. 

“I hardly see the resemblance.”

It’s a delicately crafted owl, no larger than the size of a baseball. It was a light teal color, almost minty in its appearance, that slowly gradated into a warmer orange toward the bottom. Dark vines were embroidered into it to represent wings, mixed with spots of yellow, orange, red, and pink stitching that could perhaps represent flowers. The owl’s expression looked as though it was sleeping; eyes closed and beak pointed downward, peaceful and comfortable in Reaper’s loose hold, almost as though it trusts him not to crush it. 

It definitely did not look a thing like him. The colors were too lively and warm; it remind him of the coming of springtime—the fading of lifeless frost giving way to the liveliness of grass and flowers. Its expression and body language is too trusting and happy. It did not resemble him in any capacity. 

No, if anything, it was a splitting image of how he saw you. 

And he closed his hand around it softly, the gauntlet clinking as the tips touched, creating a makeshift cage around it. It still looked content. As did you. 

“Does this mean you’ll keep it?” 

“For now.” 

The answer seems to please you, you smile widely. Reaper sneaks a peak at the owl resting in his partially closed hand again and thinks that it really resembles you—if you smiled a little brighter, the owl might actually wake up and stretch to the sky like plants reaching for the sun. 

Damn, he must be getting sentimental in his old age (not that he ages—he’s dead). 

But as an afterthought, he quietly adds, “Thanks.”

And this time, your delighted gasp and smile lights up his whole world, if only for a second and beckons the warmth of something he thought he’s long lost. 


	17. Ashes to Nothing (Implied Reaper/Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Angst

Sometimes, Reyes wonders.

Is he still the same person he is when he brings himself back together?

It feels more difficult with every passing day, like magnets outside of him pull at all of his dispersed particles, luring them elsewhere as he tries to pull himself together.

It gets harder if he tries to find all his parts.

It gets easier if he takes from other things.

Reyes knows he becomes less…himself when he takes from his surroundings. He knows but refuses to acknowledge the parts of himself he inevitably leaves behind. He doesn’t know what they are. He doesn’t want to find out.

Until one day Reyes realizes, as he picks up one of those physical photos that Ana must’ve taken years ago and he’s kept with him for sentimental reasons, that he does not recognize the person standing beside him. Even though that smile is so sweet and happy and he can see his younger—wholer—self reflecting the same, the current him can’t do the same, doesn’t know who that is.

He turns the picture around, careful not to scratch or puncture the image with his talons, but he receives no answer. He doesn’t even know when he took his picture.

Slowly, he sits down, the edges of himself already trying to pull away, enticed by the gravity of the world around him. He lets it drift as he stares at the image.

Who is that?

The person must mean something to him. His doppelganger holds the person tenderly around the waist, his shoulders are relaxed, and his smiles so hard, he could barely see his own eyes. The other person, no matter how he searched his mind, could not come up with the memory or a name. Like this thing was entirely fabricated. But it must have been real.

He was happy.

Once upon a time.

With this person.

This person who he doesn’t know.

He could ask Sombra. She likely knows of his condition now. It puts her daily check-ins, visits, and nagging questions (“Ooh, did Jessito get in your way?” “Tell me about Jack, Gabe. Think we can sneak hot sauce into his food? It’s be easy for me.”) in a new light. She probably also knows who the person in the picture is, not that she ever mentioned anyone of the like.

Tapping one pensive finger against the picture, he grunts and chucks it straight into the garbage.

He doesn’t need to know.

If he could forget so easily, it wasn’t worth remembering.

Reyes doesn’t know how much of himself he loses every time he dissipates. He just knows that by the time he realizes what he’s lost, he’s also lost his reasons to give a shit.


	18. Tucked Away (Reaper & Reader)

Gabriel has slept with you on missions before—no, not like that.

Accommodations during missions were not always five-star hotels (though sleeping beneath billions of stars was a common reality), and more often than not, a single bed for multiple agents became a running theme with you and him. Hidden beneath the snickers and hands over mouths were whispers and jests of your both being married-in-arms. Little did they know you often communicated with his wife back home, telling her these stories which she laughed at and used as harmless ammunition against him whenever he got a bit out of line.

The point remains, Gabriel knows when he wakes up in the middle of the night on missions with you, it’ll be as if you were never there. He’d have to dig a little in the bleary darkness to uncover you, tucked right against of the edge of the bed, a mere nudge away from falling, but unmoving until the sun rose.

You were small. Deathly till. Barely taking any room. An ideal sleeping companion for anyone of his bulk looking for a solo bed without compromising another person’s comfort. Hidden perfectly against midnight attackers, trained well enough to wake up and lash out at a moment’s notice. There were few he trusted enough like this, to not sleep with one eye open.

Even now as Reaper, sitting upright in cold sweat in his tiny hotel bed, he has to reach and search among the lumps and creases of blanket until he happens upon warmth—comforting yet searing warmth—rising and falling shallowly beneath his dissolving hand. You’re there. Here. Still. Watching his back even when sleeping.

You’re here.


	19. Second Chances (Reaper-centric)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Implied character death

Reaper couldn’t help the loud sigh that rattled his chest, threatening to make his rib cage lose form. He squats down, knees almost cracking and knocking into the stone-still body right in front of him. The only thing that moves is the large orb hovering over McCree’s body. Dark flames lick at it, darker than Reaper has ever seen, but likely because the soul itself is so eerily bright. It’s a sight he thought he would be used to by now, but looking down at the quickly paling face of his old—what does he even call him? A disciple? A pupil? _A ~~son~~?—_he finds his stomach turning and his teeth clenched too tight.

Another grave, raspy sigh escapes him, mist pulling away from his mask before it’s reeled back in by willpower alone. But the mist seeps out again. Slow, at first, but then it begins to bleed out. Reaper continued to stare at the face that has grown harsh with time, covered with scratches that have long stopped bleeding and facial hair that looks too scruffy to be presentable.

“Look at what you’ve become.”

He gets no sass, no spirited response. And Reaper slumps. If Akande saw him now, he would not hesitate to call him weak. He is a life taker. McCree was previous Overwatch—Blackwatch, but that’s just semantics—so it’s natural for him to take his life.

But as his hands reached out for the soul that hovered precariously and brightly above his corpse, he hesitates. It’s bright, far too bright, and a heavy sense of nostalgia weights upon him. This light—the exact type he saw in McCree’s eyes when he first picked him up—contains a fire that screams, “I want to live. I want to live and take down everyone else to do it.” It made Reyes change his mind once upon a time. And now, the soul with the same sort of fire, makes Reaper change his mind, too.

He doesn’t absorb it, no, not even if it’ll fuel him for a long, long time to come. Instead, he reaches out to it, asking once again to choose: rot in a place where no one gives a shit or to come with him.


	20. Believe (Genji/Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Blood mention

You take a shuddering breath in the airship, hands flexing nervously around the modified caduceus staff that Torbjörn had made for you. Unlike the one that Dr. Ziegler has which emits a passive tether and heals the entire body at once at a slow, but steady rate, yours was smaller and acted more like a laser that allowed you to interact with the injury directly and quickly. Someone had the mind to call it a ‘healing swiss army knife’, but no one dared to utter it again when the offender was not given any pain killers or support after breaking a leg in their latest mission at the orders of a certain doctor.

“There is no reason to be so nervous, you will do fine.” 

You offer Genji a shaky smile. Genji is sweet, has been since the day you joined the recalled Overwatch. It’s hard not to like him or even develop some sort of affection for him. 

“I-I know, but it’s just…it’s my first mission.” You look to your feet. “What if I mess up?”

“You will.” Your head snaps up, ready to be offended at the insinuation that you will fail. “But you will overcome it. And in the worst case, I will protect you.” 

You laugh quietly, slightly warmed by his bold declaration and confidence in you—confidence that you have trouble finding in yourself. 

“Genji, thanks, but I’m a medic, not a mechanic.”

He laughs at that, and the cheery sound zips through you, sending your heart racing to a far-off place. You groan, half at your ridiculous feelings and half at your nerves. “I’m serious, I won’t be able to help you if you get damaged.” 

A comforting hand rests on your shoulder and squeezes lightly. He levels you with a look behind the strip of green, and if you look hard enough and long enough, you swear you could see his eyes.

“I believe in you.” 

The sincerity in his words nearly takes your breath away, and you somehow gather up your courage to spit out, "You can count on me.”

The irony of it all comes when Genji is forced to fend off and deflect a group of omnics that had decided that you were a better target than the others. They go down, but not without a fight, leaving Genji on his back and unable to move.

You rush to him from the hiding spot he shoved you into in his haste to protect you—it was all your fault, and you shouldn’t have gone on ahead without letting Genji scout first, and if anything permanently bad happened, Hanzo would never forgive you, Dr. Ziegler would never forgive you, and you wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself either—

You stop.

A weak laugh escapes you—half nervous, half frightened. That crimson liquid underneath Genji’s body couldn’t be—

“Need…healing.” Genji tries to sound nonchalant, but the pain and rasp in his voice is evident. 

The sound of a previous cmnic’s dying voice box saying, "We are the same, so why…” before getting destroyed by Genji echoes faintly in your memory. 

_No_.

The sight before you strongly alludes to the contrary. The pool of blood that steadily spreads it reach nearly cements it—Genji is not an omnic or a cyborg with just a brain and a brain stem; he’s human and he’s…

He’s _bleeding out_.

The realization strikes you hard.

The staff feels like a deadweight in your hands, and drops to the ground like one.

Holy mother of—.

Your body goes immediately on autopilot, guiding you through the well-practiced motions of securing the body, checking vitals, triage— _triage—tri_ —

“Armor…” His voice is barely more than a feeble whisper, it’s clear it takes everything he has to speak. “Remove…able.” 

Clinging to those words like a lifeline, your fingers fumble around, feeling for latches and buttons that would allow you access to the damage. Piece by piece, the armor comes off in a clumsy heap. Some of it is sticky with blood—Genji’s blood. You can deal with blood, it was expected in your line of work, but your hands freeze when the largest piece of connected armor reveals skin melding into metal and tubing whose purpose you could not even begin to understand. 

You stare at the expanse of flesh, blood, and machinery. 

It vaguely occurs to you that you’ve never seen him without his armor. Nothing beyond the swath of human skin is familiar to you. Suddenly, you were back in your first day of class, the instructor firmly reminding everyone every day that _there is no such thing as a textbook patient_. 

And Genji is definitely no such thing. 

Questions come flying at you, bombarding your brain and commanding all of its resources. 

How much blood does Genji have? Less than the average human, probably. Major artery damage can kill in ten to fifteen minutes. Only three to five minutes for the body to go into shock.

How much blood was he losing? At what rate? How long has it been? Is he going to need a blood transplant? What even is his blood type? Again, _just how much blood did he have_ in the first place?

The tingling numbness in your fingers spread up and up into your chest, into your lungs, and into your brain. It’s almost as though you’re the one in danger of dying. You distantly fear that in the next few moments, you’ll be on the ground next to Genji, frozen with indecision.

You look to his face instinctively, hoping, searching for some sort of reassurance or guidance in the weakening green light. But a much paler, shaken reflection of yourself shines off his dull face plate and greets you instead. Even you could admit that you looked horrid, weak, and more of a victim than a hero. Hardly the image of a medic. 

What ever happened to being professional and holding yourself together? 

_‘I believe in you.’_

That’s right. 

Genji was counting on you, believed in you, and you couldn’t betray that trust. You take a shuddering breath, willing yourself to focus on the patient—panic can wait. Your feelings can wait. Duty first. You reach again for the modified caduceus staff, the weight now grounding rather than damning or useless. You set to work, a newfound determination to keep your teammate—your friend—alive.

You can’t stop, no matter how small the action, you can’t stop or doubt. You just have to do everything you can.

When help arrives and you all return to the base, Angela applauds you for keeping your cool, mentioning that even without exposure to someone as complex as Genji, you didn’t freeze up. Because of your quick actions, Genji is expected to make a full recovery.

You could only stare dumbly at her. It seemed that those moments of doubt that stretched into eternity were only merely seconds, and no lasting damage was done as a result. 

When you visit him, he greets you with a “Yo!” and a two fingered salute. You can’t help but grin at his much livelier demeanor. Even after a near death experience (that was caused because of you, you remind yourself sharply), he still manages to treat you with some shred of amenity. It certainly does nothing to dampen your affections toward the ninja.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” you say when you find your voice, seating yourself carefully near the edge of his bed. 

“I had one of the best looking after me.” You could almost hear the smile in his voice. Angela is indeed one of the best, no doubt about it. Having her look after you was almost like having the protection of a deity—an angel—who will defy death at all costs. It’s no surprise that Genji is okay. 

“I knew I was correct to believe in you. _Thank you_.”

Before the implications even sink in, he places his hand—human hand, so full of scars and warmth—against your hand. It covers up yours entirely, and the sheer intimacy of the gesture sets your face aflame. You barely hear him chuckle through the sound of your own racing heart through your ears.

“You know,” he starts, dropping to a whisper. You have to lean close to hear, and a mischievous edge makes its way into his voice. “I would have liked if you stripped me in a more favorable manner.” 

It turns out Angela is very strong without her Valkyrie suit, and is more than capable of hauling your catatonic self to the other side of the med bay. 


	21. Head Exhaustion (Genji/Reader)

The rumbling of the plane and the air-conditioning is the only noise between all of you who are all too exhausted to use your voices to express your mutual relief at being alive. Tracer could do little more than to set the plane on auto-pilot, resigning to the severity of her wounds with one of Zenyatta’s few functioning orbs hover over her. She relinquished the co-pilot seat to D.Va, whose arms were still fully functional.

Zenyatta himself is meticulously at work trying to repair his orbs, all of them sit lifelessly in his lap. Even Hanzo is too exhausted to keep up appearances, having unleashed his dragons numerous times on the field, and now dozes lightly in a corner seat.

You are not much better, laying on your back across a row of seats, no strength to even grumble about your current situation. Genji sits by your head, a hand on your forehead to keep the wet cloth in place. The coolness of it makes you sigh in relief. Your stomach churns unpleasantly, however, and you sit up despite your muscles’ protests. The world spins for a moment, and you have to blink the floating colors out of your eyes.

You prop yourself heavily against Genji, who tries to support your efforts as much as he can. He, too, must be exhausted having run around in the blazing heat. He even has his face plate off, exposing his scarred visage to the blessedly cool air of the plane. His armor is no longer blistering, but has now become just bearably warm enough for you to lean against. You take deep breaths to steady yourself, gripping Genji’s arm. He takes away the towel, dabbling your cheeks and neck, pleasingly cool.

“I thought,” you rasp when you find your voice, swallowing thickly, “I thought we were goners.”

Genji squeezes your knee. It barely reacts, twitching instead of jumping like your reflexes are meant to do. Even your nerves are shot, it seems.

“I, too, was afraid,” he admits quietly. “We were fortunate that Hana- _chan_ ’s MEKA was still able to move.”

“Don’t let her hear you,” you mumble, amused. “Only Hanzo gets to call her that.”

The ninja chuckles weakly. “Do I get to call you ‘- _chan_ ’, then?”

You smile, thumbing the chipped armor. “Only if I get to call you that, too.”

“You may call me anything you want.” You don’t need to see to know he’s smiling at you.

“Oh, shut up, you.” You lean your head up, seeking to silence the cheeky ninja with a gentle kiss which he obliges you with. He is warm, albeit a bit too warm from the heat wave you were all in a while ago, but you don’t particularly care, continuously pecking his smiling lips with chaste kisses.

His arms hold you close, thumbs rubbing circles into your shoulders. You do your best to return the gesture, but another wave of dizziness hits you, and you have to break apart, rest your head against his chest to catch your bearings. He leans his chin on your head, the quiet whirring of his mechanisms soothing you. A serene silence blankets you both, reminding you of just how exhausted you were. Occasionally, Genji drops a kiss to your head, and you return it when you can, continuing your trip back to the Watchpoint entangled in each other.


	22. Rubble (Genji/Reader)

How much time had passed?

You didn’t know. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, or even days. Your watch—analog, and that you had once touted proudly for its beautiful and precise craftsmanship—is little more than a metallic decoration on your wrist, the hands ticking back and forth in jerky movements among shattered glass. It must’ve gotten destroyed sometime between the sky was falling on you and the daunting fight to the surface from underneath several tons of rubble.

Some brilliant Talon operative felt that their base of operations was compromised—rightfully so—and decided to blow everything sky high with you in it.

You drag yourself across the obstacles of building debris, metal, and glass, drawing shallow breaths to avoid breathing in any more of the dust clouds that still lingered in the area. You curse the building architects and engineers for their choice of building material that tried to bury and smother you alive. You cough and that sends a jolt of pain shooting through your body.

Something was definitely broken somewhere; you just weren’t sure where. And hauling your body against the jagged ground was far from helpful. Why didn’t you wear your vest? The bullet-proof one that Soldier: 76 normally forces you to wear?

Oh, wait.

You did.

Some helpful jerk decided it would be a great idea to unleash a barrage of munitions on it and render it into the equivalent of paper-mâché shreds prior to running away and initiating the self-destruct sequence to this tower. You didn’t exactly like that piece of safety equipment, but it was yours, damn it.

The irritation and the desire to wrap your hands around the neck of the bastard who did this to you are the only things that fueled your unsteady army crawl across this treacherous abyss of debris.

You huff, ineffectively wiping some sweat—blood?—away from your eyes with your shoulder; your hands look like they shouldn’t be anywhere near your face. Still, you continued to curse at the absent Talon operative. You are sure he is alive. You had heard the sound of a jetpack before the explosion gave you permanent tinnitus.

Speaking of which, you haven’t heard it in a little while. Or at least, you are now able to hear something other than that persistent ringing. Like the sounds of something rotating rapidly in the air.

Maybe it wasn’t as permanent as you thought.

You couldn’t feel the pain in your legs anymore, but at the same time, you couldn’t really feel your legs at all. That might be a problem. You add it as another reason on your growing list of grievances against Talon. There were a lot.

This entire mission had been lovely. A smashing hit.

You and a few Overwatch agents had landed near this base which was immediately abandoned by all Talon members in area—they were researchers and scientists, not combatants. While everyone else was fending off what little defense that engaged them outside the perimeter, you had slipped inside to grab any intelligence left behind. Like many other large organizations, their contingency escape plans couldn’t have been so thorough as to include the destruction of their data, could it?

No, it didn’t, much to your glee at the time. You were free to pilfer their databases and codes, especially the specs of their new weaponry and operative profiles.

The plan would have been a success if it wasn’t for that Talon member who you ran into. The rest was history and you were determined not about to become a part of it if you could help it. As for your team, they must’ve been outside the perimeter of the blast. More likely than not, everyone else has been whisked off to safety while you are just crawling around like a fool because you believed they wouldn’t otherwise abandon you here in the middle of a building collapse.

Great, you were just digging yourself out of a hole deep underground for nothing. Chances are, even in the open now, none of your teammates would be waiting for you or looking for you—instead, they’re giving their reports to Winston and Soldier: 76, claiming you are dead and maybe hold some hilarious funeral for you with a headstone covered in your signature profanities. Damn them. At least the cursing headstone would be appropriate.

“Yo.”

You yelp, and tried to scramble for cover under…nothing.

There is nothing around you that you could hide behind or under, which was a welcome change from the constant scenery of claustrophobic makeshift tunnels that you’ve been crawling through for the past…oh, right, your watch was broken.

But upon seeing a glow of familiar green against an expanse of open air from the corner of your eye, you begin to grumble about ninjas and their non-existent footsteps and give up on trying to hide yourself.

“I heard your profanity,” Genji says, voice tinged with relief and touch of giddiness.

You’re not sure if he’s happy that he’s found you or if he’s amused by your creative obscenities. You choose to believe the latter and debate giving him a tongue lashing as well. But as it were, you were too exhausted to do any more than just huff. Your teammate found you, you’re both relatively safe, and that’s all that mattered.

He kneels beside you, inquiring about your injuries. You give your self-diagnosis (“Feel like shit. Lower body’s shot and I don’t even want to look at my front.”) to which he regards with a lot of concern and checking of your legs for you. His diagnosis is only, “We will need Angela,” which prompts a long-drawn groan out of you.

You push at his arms when he attempts to scoop you up out of the tunnel you found your way out of, or to at least turn you face-up.

“Hurt my back, don’t want to lay on it.”

He tries a few more times, much to your displeasure, and gives up to sit beside you on the fallen remains of a column, respectful of the fact that you’re face-first in a pile of rubble.

“Angela is on her way now,” he says after a brief conversation over his communicator. “I’ve sent her our coordinates. Are you sure you are…all right?”

“’m annoyed. Tired. I don’t want to do anything,” you grumble. Now that you’ve had a second to catch your breath, the ache in your arms and fingers finally begin to sink in and make itself known. It burns like hell. “Hey, did you find the prick who left me to die?”

“No.” Genji sounds just a little mournful. “We are lucky to have found you.”

You tsk, annoyed that the person who nearly caused your untimely demise has gotten away. You were very much looking forward to burying the bastard in the exact pit you crawled out of, on top of strangling him, and maybe tying up his legs so he can’t use them to escape.

Genji takes your hand, and that stops your torture scenario in its tracks.

“It took us half a day to find you.” His voice is soft, his thumb—it was damaged and heavily scratched—caresses the back of your hand. You stare at the motion incredulously, but Genji does not seem to notice. If he does, he is polite enough to not say anything. “We thought the worst when we could not contact you.”

You had the decency to feel a little embarrassed. “‘m sorry.”

Your teammates must’ve been worried sick. Of course they wouldn’t be throwing a funeral party for you. They must’ve been searching like crazy. Come to think of it, it was morning when you all landed nearby. The sky is now dark and beginning to chill your violently burning skin and muscles.

“As long as you’re safe, I am thankful.”

The fondness in his voice is evident, and you say nothing. He holds your hand a little tighter, and you squeeze it back even though it hurt to curl your fingers, face turned into the ground to hide the smile that threatened to crack your features. 

“Thanks, Genji. Nice to know you care.”

His laugh is gentle.

“Of course. And when we return, we will have Winston repair this. It is your favorite, is it not?”

He taps the broken remains on your watch, and you are surprised to know that he remembered. It is sweet and makes your heart squeeze just a little.

“Just come out with me and get a new one, I think that one’s done for, anyway.”

There was a moment of silence before Genji’s playful voice cut through it. “It’s a date, then.”


	23. Sew Me a New Skin (Genji & Reader)

“Is it done yet?” Genji asks for the hundredth time as he pulls his best impression of Spiderman, hanging upside down with the loose end of his head scarf dangling precariously over the spinning bobbin of your sewing machine. 

“Not yet.” You pause to adjust the tension. “How are the pants?" 

He jumps down, somehow managing a flip in the short distance and then zooms around the entirety of your little workroom. 

It’s too bad you can’t see, too busy ensuring the edges of the LEDs get tucked away properly in the seams. The rhythmic beating of your machine and the fast movements of the cyborg ninja in your room is all you can hear—it’s all you can ask for. 

A violent breeze runs by your head as Genji comes to a stop beside you. "The pants are good.”

You nod, leading the grey fabric in your hands on a turn. “Mm. No tearing anywhere?”

“Nope.”

“Great. Knew adding that gusset was a good choice.”

You put a lot of thought into creating Genji’s outfit, taking his fighting style, mechanical enhancements, and needs into account. You never expected him to come to you for anything; he’s just not the type of customer you ever thought would want your services. But seeing him so excited for clothes for the first time since you’ve heard of him many years ago with a picture of his ‘brother’, you couldn’t help but expedite the order.

All other work fell to the wayside as you both talk and test fabrics and designs. It was a fun challenge—Overwatch, whether their members knew it or not, always had a funny way of finding their way back to you. Everyone has different requirements and different purposes for their clothes. Some wear what is functionally-smart, others want it to be just as fashionable. 

Genji wanted a fun mix of both, completely opposite from what you would’ve expected given his history with Blackwatch. Not even Gabriel could’ve gotten him to wear anything other than the armor that barely protects him. But this may just be a sign of the times. A sign that he is accepting who he is.

The machine slows to a stop and you snip off the last few threads connecting the garment to the machine. 

“All right. I haven’t cleaned up the loose threads, but test the sizing and the lights." 

No sooner did you hold out the newly completed garment does it disappear from your hands. The swish of fabric and a loud ‘ _zzhhhipppp_!’ later, Genji stands before you, fully clothed in pants, sneakers, and the brand-new hoodie you’ve just completed. You watch as Genji tugs and pulls at the straps that keep the sleeves from riding up, fitting the odd holes of the hoodie around his metallic parts. 

"How is it?” you ask eagerly. 

Just as you speak, the LED strips of the hoodie and pants come to life, the vibrant green matching the steady color in his mask as if saying “All systems operational”. He turns toward you and you can see everything alight, well-fitted, and complete. 

Your hand pulls themselves together in front of you, a swell of pride rising against your chest. The smile on your lips is so wide, it may even stay that way. 

It looks so good.

Behind the mask, you were sure you could hear the smile on his voice as he flexes and puts his hands in his new pockets, casual and utterly pleased. “It’s perfect.”


	24. Tattoo (Genji & Reader)

The streets are always being patrolled by the lower members of the Shimada clan as members mill slowly past but around the tiny house that sits innocently amidst the narrow row of residentials.  
  
Genji could point out the nondescript house even now: a mix of wood and brick modestly painted with the family crest of the ones inhabiting it: a master and apprentice.

Behind the mask, Genji smiles as he observes the still house with its curtains drawn shut and windows cracked open just a sliver to catch the chilly spring breeze.

How nostalgic.

The steady hand on his back or arm (more to guide the needles than to comfort, but he took what he could), the smell of ink so thick he drowns in it, the constant, painful prickle of the tools was still pressed into the forefront of his memories. The clan had insisted on a ‘ _hori-shi_ ’—a traditional tattoo artist who practiced _tebori_ , hand tattooing.

Genji was adamant that machines would be the faster and more effective way to do the tattoo, but this was a matter that not even his doting father would indulge his ‘Sparrow’ in.

This is not the house that had done his brother’s. That one is on the other side of town, supposedly. The families and houses are kept a guarded secret except to the upper echelon of the clan. Regardless of who would do the tattoo, Genji had no doubt in his mind that he wanted one far cooler than his brother’s.

He was twenty years of age when he started his first session, but the tattoo design had been in the making years before any ink ever stained his skin. It was obviously to be a dragon, but the exact design would be up to you, the apprentice that would be newly turned independent master by the time he was of age. It was unusual, but your master believed in you, staked his very reputation and even his whole hand on it, in fact.

In a modest room with little more than your tools and a rather spartan bed that floated off the ground, Genji wasted no time entertaining himself with words like, “Since you’re sticking stuff in me, how about I inject you with something of my own?” and an obscene waggle of his bold eyebrows, if only to cope with the sharp and rhythmic jabs of your needles—they were certainly intimidating, long as your forearm and thicker than a chopstick. Even worse (or better) was the time he asked you to take off your shirt because it was unfair that only he was partially nude.

Each and every frustrating time, you merely smiled—was it even genuine, he now wonders—and continued your steady work, his flowery words bouncing off your professionalism, falling lifelessly at your feet. The distinct sting of the needle was his punishment, but time turned it into a dull electricity that lives beneath his skin and gave him life.

Flirtatious comments eventually gave way to more substantial conversation: the tools (handmade), the number of years you’ve been practicing (too many), how you feel about working on the sacred tattoo of the second Shimada son (honored and happy). You managed to turn the tables on him when you began to color: you started asking about his life (boring), his thoughts on his brother (nerd), his feelings about the clan (decrepit and needs to get with the times).

The last session, the final session, was a tearful one. Instead of spending most of his time lying down with his arm at your mercy, the work was quick and efficient. The last of nearly six months’ worth of work, finished in less than an hour. Instead, you both spent the time sitting up, facing each other, sharing a cup of tea while your master checked your work with a brimming pride that made his eyes shine. That day, he spent the night, even eating dinner with you and your master. It was not until late the next morning did he return home.

The finish product even made his father raise his eyebrows, a rare smile gracing his face.

Thick, bold lines worthy of bearing a dragon’s might faded away into delicate ones that did not seem they could even survive the natural flex of his arm. Fierce green and orange flooded the lines and faded away into a gradient like a whisper. His brother, ever so critical, frowned at the gaudiness of it.

Not traditional enough, but not extreme enough to be considered modern. It was a masterful blend of a divide in two eras. Compared to his brother’s, the differences were clear, but the skill was not. Even the elders, who have witnessed and been exposed to all manners of tattoos, could not decide if his was considered acceptable or exceptional.

It’s with pride that Genji wore his out in the open at every chance, another thorn in his stiff family’s side.

Would you be upset that the tattoo you had so painstakingly woven into his skin is no more? Would you shed tears? Would you explode and chase him out, hot on his heels slinging words of molten stone and bleeding anguish?

It’s hard to imagine what reaction you’d take; you were always so focused and patient, voice even like your hand when it lays thin lines into his skin.

He wonders if you’d do another piece for him. Perhaps over the scars that have formed but is quick to shake his head free of the idea. It’s likely the colors wouldn’t take, and it’d be too difficult to navigate the logistics of grafted and synthetic skins on his person.

It would have been good to see you at the very least, but it would be regretful to cause a scene in front of your home.

Genji gives the building a two-fingered salute and forces himself to walk away from the temporary home he had spent countless hours in, on his belly, in casual conversation with the one person who, despite only knowing the way of needle and ink, managed to forge the closest and sincerest bond with his juvenile self.


	25. Gates (Genji & Reader)

Genji clears his throat and then in his best, but still terrible, Hanzo impression, he says, "Every year, I sneak into Shimada Castle to honor my fallen brother. You’d think at this point the clan would just close the gate.”

You pull a deep frown and an even heavier sigh.

“He said that?”

“Yes.”

Shaking your head, you call over the waiter bot and ask for two more bottles of alcohol. It’s silent until they arrive and you pour yourself a glass that you polish off instantly.

“’Close the gates’," you grumble mockingly. "We did that for the first _two_ _years_.”

“And…?” He’s almost afraid to ask.

The force of your glare pins him down, but it quickly turns mournful and far-off. Your sight goes past his shoulder and then to the side, like you’re reliving a traumatic memory.

“Do you have any idea how much those gates cost to repair?” Your voice drops to a menacing whisper. “Do you know how fucking powerful your brother is when he doesn’t give a shit about property damage?”

Genji winces sympathetically, silently pouring your glass whenever it got empty.

“He blew up the gates, Genji,” you deadpan. “They were completely replaced during the second year. On the third year, we decided to leave them open. Gates were fine. Since then, we decided to leave them as they were. God, you have no idea how hard it is to import that sort of wood here to Japan and prepare them. It takes about 18 months to get them ready and like a month to get them installed. Not to mention how much it costs.

“It’s hard to find any artisans who will do anything more than basic repair work on old buildings like these. And your fucking brother, he definitely knows the value of those gates, just comes in and destroys them because they’re no longer his problem. You’re both brats. Except you do petty damages frequently and Hanzo does massive damage every once in a while. You both suck.”


	26. Umbrella (Genji & Reader)

Genji stands right underneath the awning of a bus stop where rain has already begun to come down in sheets, soaking his shins and feet. He does not really feel it, not in the way that he used to: there’s the pinging of metal now and the lack of feeling the rain soaking in and cleansing him of things he wants to forget. It was something he had lamented with great anguish when he realized he could not even feel the simple pleasure that is the rain upon his skin. Perhaps he still does.

He reaches out a hand, letting the water catch on him, but he can feel nothing except the briefest of pressures; it’s so hollow.

Leaning against the glass wall of the stop, he watches as the rain creates small rivers down the streets, carrying leaves and other debris to unknown destination. The rain brings a certain type of calm to the world and emptying it of people and animals who have all taken shelter. It should be uncomfortable, but his suit filters out the humidity—he cannot even breath in the air properly without it all being artificial. While he has long come to terms with it, moments like these make him wish for things he cannot have.

He’s so lost in thought, he doesn’t notice the hurried steps and splashes down the street until you stop right outside the stop, out of breath and wearing a raincoat.

“Fi-finally found, found you,” you wheeze, water flowing down your face in little rivulets, down your coat, soaking every inch of you. 

Genji starts. “What are you doing here? It’s _raining_." 

“I brought you an umbrella.” You huff and shove the end of one at him. “Thought you might not want to get wet.” 

He stares, stunned at the gesture before laughing, a little bit amazed and a little bit giddy. "You didn’t have to." 

"Well, dinner’s in half an hour and you’re missing, so of course I have to." 

Genji chuckles. "Of course. It’s about dinner, not me.” He feigns hurt, but opens up the umbrella anyway, tilting it over your head. 

“Would you like to share it with me?" 

The question hangs in the air and Genji watches with a sort of anticipation he hasn’t had since he was younger, though that anticipation blooms into something warm and overbearingly sweet when he sees you smile and say, "I’d love to." 

He might not be able to have the things he used to have, but moments like this is nice, too.


	27. On Guard (Genji & Reader)

“I hope my…performance was to your safitacati—satisfaction, Master Shimada.”

Your _sonkeigo_ —polite Japanese—is clumsy on your lips, spilling forth like water against a steep bed of uneven rocks as you made your report to Shimada Sojiro. The man is regal even when wearing little more than the equivalent of pajamas— _jinbei_ , you later remember—and a _happi_ over his shoulders. Beside him were his two heirs—Hanzo and Genji Shimada. Surrounding you are your future colleagues, dressed in the same suit you were (and some with bandages as an indicator of the ass-whooping you’ve bestowed upon them during your test.)

“In light of your abilities, I will assign you to my son, Genji.”

The announcement makes your heart swell and you fight the smile that tries to make its way onto your face—you’re well on your way to completing your mission of infiltration and information gathering. However, the young man in question rolls his eyes and sticks his tongue out for which his brother smacks him in the shoulder for. “The head of his guards, Asahi, will guide you. I expect you both to take care of each other.”

You bow deeply at the waist. “I understand, Master Shimada. Thank you for this honor.”

“Peh, don’t be so happy about it, newbie,” your new charge calls out with almost childish disdain. “We’ll see just how much of an honor it is.”

Patience, it seems, is going to have to be your greatest and most elusive ally.

That was almost three years ago.

In those three years, many things have happened. You went from being a total outcast to being somewhat accepted by the family. It was stressful, to say the least, trying to blend in and at the same time curry the favor of your masters so as to be allowed into their lives in order to gather information useful to Overwatch. Most of the time, you only had scraps of information just shy of useful for a full-fledged investigation.

It also didn’t help that Genji chooses to spend his time outside of his family’s business despite the elders’ insistence that he attend. That didn’t make your job any easier. And as luck would have it, Genji seemed to seek out your company much more frequently by purposefully making your life just that much harder. He seemed to slip out from the attention of his guards more often whenever you’re on duty (you assumed it’s because you were new), and he would have to be wrestled back to the castle (though he’d return with you much more willingly than he would with any other guard). He even tried to practice his English with you (it’s much better than your stuttering Japanese).

It’s exhausting but rewarding especially when Shimada Sojiro nods at you in passing with a “Good work”, and Hanzo, usually following behind at arm’s length, mimics him. Sometimes you even overhear Hanzo scolding his brother behind closed doors, telling him not to give you so much trouble (he gives you even more trouble as a result, but relents easily when caught). But to see Genji look at you in surprise when you insist on bandaging injuries he’s gotten from training or to force him to eat healthy food, it’s almost enough to make you forget your mission and just immerse yourself in the fact that you’ve more-or-less become invested in this family.

Not that you can admit that to yourself nor tell it to your superiors back home.

“I truly believe…that you should acost—accompany your father and brother to the—these meetings,” you tell him as you drag him back from another night in town, lipstick marks plastered all over his cheeks like trophies. “You’re an adult, and I’d like to see other people see you more positively.”

“Whatever, ‘ _mother’_.” He doesn’t make it easy for you, dragging his heels and waving at the shopkeeps who see him (”Got caught again, huh, sonny?” “Don’t go making trouble for your father, now!” “Gen- _chan_ , my wife’s made some pickled vegetables! Come by and get some when you’re free, okay?”).

You try not to smile. Even though he causes you such trouble, the people of the town seem to like him enough. It’s hard to believe that such a person would have to have his hand in arms-dealing and adding to the chaos that envelopes the world.

“The townspeople like you a lot already. Would it—would it be so difficult to be the same way to your family?” It becomes easier to pull Genji along, a contemplative silence blanketing you both.

Finally, he says, “…I’ll think about it.”

“I’m happy to see you at lost—least considering it. I’m proud of you, Shimada-sama.”

You don’t even have to turn around to know he’s beaming like a disco ball. He loves being praised by those close to him—the very image of a spoiled child, but it’s endearing nonetheless.

“But first, we have to do something about your green hair.”

“Hey! I _like_ my hair! How about we dye yours green, huh? _”_

Sometime after that, Genji began to show initiative into his family’s life, asking a wayward question here and there, pretending to look at the ledgers rather than outright throw them on the floor and leave.

You were sure the head of Genji’s guards, Asahi, wept a little when he saw his young master willingly attend a clan meeting. Granted, you were not allowed in the room, but that was a start. And you couldn’t wait to tell your boss about it.

After the meeting, you can see Hanzo nod at his brother in approval (it’s the first time since you’ve been here since you’ve seen such a thing), and Shimada Sojiro patting his youngest son on the back (Genji never looked more ecstatic), and the elders actually look at Genji like he’s not trash when they exit, making small conversation. However, when Genji catches sight of you, he marches up, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“So, do you see me in a better light, now?”

He has his fists on his hips, and chest puffed. You cough into your hand to hide your smile.

“You’re a hundred years too early to…what’s the word…be impressing me with such shallow conversatio—conviction, Shimada-sama. But I will admit, the suit looks good.”

You turn around too quickly to see that you have struck him speechless. You are pleased to see that he seems to be growing well and that would soon make your mission that much easier.

As with all things however, it couldn’t have lasted.

Shimada Sojiro dies shortly after the beginning of your fourth year with the Shimadas (natural causes, supposedly), and Genji did not handle it well (you have a broken leg and a ruined tear-stained shirt to prove it after a frenzied and deeply-emotional chase). The wake is even more of a mess—Genji doesn’t even bother attending and Asahi needed your help (disabled as you were) to seek him out in the heavy spring rain.

‘It’ll be fine,’ you try to tell yourself.

Genji may have been a loose canon and uninterested in familial responsibilities of the illicit sort up until recently, but you know from watching over him that he’s the type who can do anything if he puts his mind to it. He’s a kind person, a bit childish and self-centered, perhaps, but he’s reliable when you really need him. You’re sure these three years of waiting and serving the Shimada clan would have been worth it.

You carry on your duties believing that. Whereas Hanzo is immediately ascended to the proverbial throne and embroiled in countless meetings without even a day to mourn, Genji takes his time, hiding from his retainers. Only occassionally will he open himself up to yourself or Asahi, looking more and more tired with each passing day. He barely even goes out anymore, rendering your role practically useless.

You can only give him words of encouragement through the shoji doors, which you don’t even know if he hears.

Days turned into weeks. If anything, Genji proved to be more lackadaisical than ever. But you refuse to let your hope wane even when the rest of the clan begins to lose hope, meeting invitations to formal functions becoming less and less and Genji becomes more and more isolated from his family.

Your patience pays off when Genji finally _looks_ at an invitation to a dinner party that would undoubtedly lead to a conversation of the more illegal variety.

Genji shrugs on his hoodie, a telltale sign that he plans to hit the town rather than go to this important clan meeting. You try to keep your voice steady and pretend as though you’re asking as a matter of duty and not because you really need to this happen. “Should you not…join your brother in these meetings? I believe this one is with several important Shimada alibis—no—allies and your brother has requested your presence.”

Genji laughs sharply, startling you. “Bullshit. I’m not interested in that stuff. All they talk about is expanding the empire and shit. They don’t care—my brother won’t care—if I’m there or not. So I won’t either.”

Something in the back of your mind cracks, and you couldn’t contain the sound of frustration that breaks from your throat. Genji slips out of the room through the window, unaware (or purposefully ignoring) your anger. You chase after him more out of habit than free will, mind going numb at your realization. The chase goes on for most of the day, and he makes himself harder to spot and catch than usual. Genji is dragged home pouting and whining by yourself and the head of Genji’s guards, Asahi. It takes everything in you not to dump him right on the porch of Shimada castle and leave for good. No, you had to at least inform your boss of your findings.

It’s late at night when you swap out your Shimada-issued earpiece for your Blackwatch one. A small wave of irritation waxes and wanes with every second you’re kept on hold, until finally, you hear the smooth voice of Gabriel Reyes in your ear.

“Your report isn’t due for another week, what’s your emergency? Or are you home sick?”

“ _Boss_.” If you weren’t so irate, you would’ve been glad to hear proper English again. “The mission, it’s a bust. These past three years have been a total _fucking waste of time_.”

You can practically hear him straightening up in his seat, crossing his arms and leaning on the table with renewed interest and mild concern. “Explain yourself.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath. The words are shoved forcefully through clenched teeth, “I’m with the _wrong_ Shimada.”

* * *

You stare blankly at the night scenery of Hanamura. Your conversation with Gabriel has left you weary.

What has the past three years been for?

You both discussed the possibility of becoming Hanzo’s retainer or one of the guards of the oligarchy that controls the Shimada clan from the shadows, but that idea was quickly shot down. Knowing the internal politics, you were lucky to have been even considered for the role of protecting the so-called backup heir. As long as Genji remains obstinate in his distance, your mission would never be complete.

Gabriel, ever the sore-loser, argued against calling off the mission, still believing in the possibility of a lead. You did, too, once. And now, you just wanted it to end. After much arguing, you were allowed to leave your post—you will return to Blackwatch in a week. With no results to show for it.

Your body sags under the weight of failure. A voice suddenly behind you jolts you straight back to attention. Genji. Once of the rarer times he’s out of his room. He looks barely presentable—dark bags underneath his eyes, and just a little bit ruffled.

“I want to talk to you. Come.” He doesn't wait for you to agree, fully expecting you to follow.

Even if you planned on leaving, you figure you might as well continue fulfilling your duties until the very end. So you follow the young master into a private room, usually reserved for distinguished guests, far away from the rest of the compound.

You shouldn’t have been as surprised as you were when Genji sits you down on the floor and brings out little cups and a large bottle of sake. He just wanted a drinking buddy, it seems. In your current mood, you’re careful not to drink—you never know what might slip from your lips.

But Genji is not so careful, freely talking about everything and anything that comes to mind until he hits on what seems to be the root cause of this impromptu drinking session.

“I know that they assigned a foreigner to me because they don’t care what happens to me." The smile on Genji’s face is bitter, and he slams back another cup of sake with such force, it’s as though he’s trying to kill those thoughts with alcohol alone.

You open your mouth to deny his claims, but the words are stuck in your throat when you see the look he gives you. A worn smile, exhausted from years of pretending and defiance. You swallow whatever empty words come to mind.

“But I’m glad,” he says defiantly. “Because you don’t treat me like that. You treat me like I’m _me_ and not some piece of garbage that people are forced to be near.” Genji ducks his head, voice smaller now. “So, um, thank you. For everything. You’re the one other person I can really trust around here, and uh, sorry. About your leg.”

He pats it right where the break was, gentle and sorrowful, like a kid trying to make up for their mistake.

Guilt sneaks into your chest, coiling around your insides uncomfortably when the words you’ve spoken to your superior not so long ago return to the surface with a taunting vengeance.

“ _I’m with the wrong Shimada_.”

You return a shaky smile. “Think nothing of it, Shimada-sama.”

He returns the gesture with a dopey one of his own, loose with alcohol. “When we’re alone, you can call me _Genji.”_

Your heart nearly stops. The uncomfortable feeling erodes at something inside you. Nausea floods your stomach, but Genji does not seem to notice, eagerly shoving a small cup into your trembling hands. “Now drink! To our friendship!”

This is going to be a long, painful week.


	28. Good Night Light (Genji & Reader)

“Genji?”

“Hm?”

He feels your presence long before he hears you call out to him. Though, it’s not like your hurried, stumbling footsteps did a very good job at making you discreet.

To be fair, you’re not a ninja or very aware of how to hide your presence like his brother is. That isn’t to say that Hanzo would be very successful in sneaking up on him nowadays anyway with his new cybernetic enhancements. (It’s a thought he doesn’t want to dwell on too often—it ruins the sanctity of his childhood memories.)

“Can I bother you for a bit?” There is hesitance and a slight weariness that tinges your voice—it’d be horrible of him to deny you (not that he has any good reason to).

“You are most welcome here,” he says reassuringly, patting the space next to him on the ground by the front door of the little safe house the team occupies. You don’t hesitate to drop down there, knees knocking against each other clumsily. The darkness of the night is offset by the increased glow of his armor. Genji had no issues seeing in the dark, but you might.

“What seems to be the problem?”

Quiet quickly fills the seconds between you both. From the corner of his eyes, he could see you staring downward, cast in green. He can’t be sure, but he could swear there are dark circles underneath your eyes.

“I was having trouble sleeping,” you confess after a while, leaning a little closer to him.

“Ah yes, insomnia,” he muses, a hand to his chin. “I was very fond of staying up when I was younger. And now I wished I did not waste such opportunities.”

You laugh, visibly relaxing. “Oh no, it’s not that. Excuse me—” You hold up a hand to yawn in your sleeve, and Genji’s reminded of a puppy and a smile twisted its way into his face. “Whew.”

“A bad dream, then?”

You shake your head. “I’m afraid of the dark.”

“Yes, that is reasonab—the dark?” The way you say it so casually, he had to do a double-take to really process your words. The dark? An accomplished, brave person like you?

“Go ahead.” You sigh, throwing your hands up weekly in the air. “Laugh it up. I don’t care.” A self-depreciating laugh escapes your lips in his place, but Genji did not very much feel like laughing at your fears.

“No, I—”

He supposes that a person’s fear is often irrational and there’s no reason to make fun of you for it—he’s learned long ago not to try and capitalize on someone’s fears lest he wants an arrow through the head.

Come to think of it, when the two of you were on missions, your choice of sleeping area generally revolved around the luminated controls of the ship, the window where streetlights and moonlight stream in from, or when all other options are exhausted, near his vicinity. But this safehouse is in a rather rural area, lights and electricity scarce despite the advancement in technology, and today is the new moon. It’s all so obvious now.

“—I believe it is very brave of you to disclose your fears to me. I could never laugh at that,” he says as firmly and as sincerely as he could.

You turn to him, face slack like you couldn’t believe his reaction or therefore lack of. He couldn’t help but smile though you could never see it. Instead, he adjusts the lights on his armor to their full brightness.

In his younger days, he’d have no issue throwing an arm over your shoulder, maybe with a flirty line about how he’d keep you safe from anything in the dark, but now, he’s more comfortable to give his silent support. He chuckles to himself quietly. How the times have changed. “Is this better?”

He’s pleased when you smile at him, a fleeting squirming jolts through him when you do. “Thanks.”

“Genji, turn off the lights—some of us are trying to sleep,” Hana mumbles angrily from behind him. The two of you look at the young woman who glares blearily through the green lights, hands on her hips, clearly having woken up not too long ago. You both look at her and then each other for a moment before you both burst into laughter, waking up the rest of the team. No one really sleeps well that night.


	29. Hand-Holding (Hanzo/Reader)

Hanzo does not usually enjoy displays of affection, rarely allowing himself to be touched. He needed to be acclimated to it the same way he had to become acclimated to the small endearments you give him. Though, he surprises you sometimes.

Like when he does not pull away when you take a hold of his hand—it’s so very warm and such a comfortable weight especially during the sparse times he puts it on your shoulder or at the small of your back or between your shoulder blade. He tolerates the way you flip his hand around in yours and the way you study him with little more than a raised eyebrow in question.

“I like the way your hand fits in mine,” you say, smiling wide at him. 

He only regards you with that cool indifference that you’ve become used to, but then his hand slips out of yours.

“Hey—!”

But then, his hand engulfs yours and he brings it up between you both, an intense look in his eyes as he stares you down.

“You mean in _mine_.”

Hanzo laughs out loud into the back of your hand when you burst into a full-bodied flush.


	30. Trying to Sleep (Hanzo/Reader)

Hanzo lay there, wide awake beside you, who sleeps the night away, unaware of his dilemma. His hand is draped over your waist, and he finds himself enraptured with the feel of it underneath his hand. It was warm, soft, and pliant unlike him. His own stomach was hard and unwelcoming and he briefly wonders how could you even like holding him when every aspect of him is so unyielding and unkind to you? Even his ribbon has managed to hit you in the face more than once. His ribbon, of all things.

Embarrassing.

“Han.” Your sleepy voice makes him jolt and he scrambles take his arm away even though you were the one who put it there in the first place.

You yawn, and instantly, Hanzo is reminded of a kitten or a puppy, especially with the way you turn and curl in on yourself and into him, clinging to his night shirt. His heart melts at the sight, and he can’t help but press his lips to your forehead which brings a smile to your face. Hanzo’s breathing thins, and he thinks you’ll be the death of him. He presses a few more across your cheeks, your nose, your eyelids. He huffs a breathless laugh at your expression, nose and eyebrows scrunched but a large grin spread across your face.

“Stop it, we need to sleep,” you whine with little conviction, eyes still tightly closed. He smiles down on you who decides to smush your face into his less than comfortable chest. Hearing your content sigh and seeing you relax against him, his doubts for your comfort slowly ebbs away, replaced by a gentle warmth and affection.

He haltingly curls his burly arm around your waist again, and you return his bold gesture with an affectionate squeeze around his waist. He jumps when he feels lips at the base of his throat; it tingles in a good way. He looks down to see you still feigning sleep, trying to fight off an impish smile. 

“You _vixen_." 

It is on. 


	31. Carry (Hanzo/Reader)

You’re used to this already.

“Going for a walk?” Lucio shouts slyly, a large grin plastered on his face as he walks by with a giggling Mei and Zarya who curls an arm and points to her bulging biceps with a wink.

No, never mind.

You bury your burning face into your hands, a strangled groan dying in your throat before it makes it out. It doesn’t go unnoticed, however.

“Problem?” asks a voice much closer to your ear and sounding much more amused than the DJ.

“No. No, continue…whatever you’re doing. I’ll just…deal with this.” You make a vague gesture in the air, and you could feel the rumbling of silent laughter against your shoulder.

Hanzo Shimada, either due to some sadistic game or dare, grabbed you away from your lunch out of the blue and began to carry you around the Watchpoint in his arms.

No amount of shouting, hitting, pleading would get him to let you down. So, you had to resign yourself to waiting until the man got tired.

That was about an hour ago.

In the meantime, you were both subject to the snickers and sarcastic comments of other agents. Why you? Why not someone like Angela who is made of coffee, alcohol, and stubborn medical research? Or Lena who could just time skip her way out of this? He really had to pick you up and parade you around the entire Watchpoint like…like…a damsel freshly rescued from distress—though, you can argue you are still in distress.

It is lessening.

Gradually.

This was something you expected from Genji or McCree, but Hanzo?

He didn’t give you any worthwhile answer when you asked. You stopped pestering him about it after the first fifteen minutes. If he didn’t want to talk, he wouldn’t, and you had no leverage to change that.

There is nothing else to do but to get comfortable being in Hanzo’s arms and rest your head against his shoulder, listening to the man’s steady heartbeat. He doesn’t seem to mind, having said nothing about it the whole time. If you close your eyes, this is actually pretty comfortable. Hanzo is like a furnace, his steps even and soothing, enticing you into a slumber.


	32. Down with the Sickness (Hanzo/Reader)

Hanzo’s mouth is full of curses as he ambles down the halls at a quarter to five in the morning. Apparently, his alarm had gone off twice without his notice, and it took him much longer to get out of bed than usual no thanks to a fierce ache in his entire body that tried to force him back into the comfort of his sheets. The training session from yesterday must have worn him out more than he remembered. He wears his clothes on both shoulders today, the halls and his room much more frigid than usual—the thermostat in his room before he left says otherwise, however. 

He nearly crashes into a red-eyed Hana, who immediately takes notice of his state with more concern in her voice than exhaustion. He assumes she is referring to his clothes, but he is far too focused on getting to the training range to heed her advice to go back to his room.

In hindsight, he should have listened. It would have saved him the embarrassment of Hana and Soldier: 76 finding him nearly half an hour later slumped against a wall with only two arrows missing from his quiver and more than a dozen superficial injuries from the training bots that continued to barrage him with bouncy bullets.

It isn’t until he wakes up a second time with a stuffed nose and headache that he vaguely admits to himself that he might not be in the best condition after all. Newfound nausea that has him scrambling to the bathroom drives that fact home. It’s as though the mere act of _admitting_ that he may be ill invites the cold to hit him full force.

He is going to put an arrow through the person who got him sick he swears as he dry heaves over the toilet. Hours seem to pass by, but in reality, it’s only been twenty minutes when Hanzo is ready to tear himself away from the porcelain bowl.

The walk between the bathroom and his bed eats up more energy than he’s ever remembers it requiring. The exertion has him heaving all over again and colorful spots floating in his vision. Hanzo lets himself down shakily on the mattress, legs and brain feeling like fuzz, and sweat pouring out of him like it was being rung out of him.

This is the worst.

Mankind is able to create new limbs and new organs out of nothing but a few measly cells, and artificial intelligence is a reality that nearly wiped out humanity, but the common cold still remains an incurable mystery?

_Bullshit._

In the back of his mind, he could hear his brother’s voice from when they were children, when Genji would seem to never be sick while he would be saddled with the occasional flu that would leave him bedridden for days.

_“Quit being dramatic, brother, it’s just a cold.”_

Of course Genji could say such a thing—idiots don’t catch colds, after all—or rather, now that he’s a cyborg, the chances of him catching a cold is even less. Was there enough man in the machine to be affected?

Hanzo squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head of the thought—a bad move, it just makes him dizzier—he didn’t want to think about the specifics of his altered blood relative.

But how much blood could he have? He is sure that when he unleashed his dragons upon Genji, the smears on the floor and walls were not inconsequential (the cleaners sent a hefty bill to remind them of such, not to mention the dreams—maybe his memory is exaggerating; he is quite unwell after all).

With a groan, he lies back down on the bed and immediately regrets it when he finds that he cannot breathe. It only adds to his irritation when he sits up against the headboard and his body thinks it is at sea. He swings his legs over and gets up because this situation is ridiculous. His body is being ridiculous. The cold is ridiculous.

With his mind addled by sickness and thoughts of how unfair modern science is to him, a telling ‘beep— _woosh’_ of his door sliding open has him instinctively clamoring up the wall. He is halfway between climbing and slipping before he spies your silhouette—he’d recognize it anywhere even with his facilities impaired. He still doesn’t try to give up his poor ascent; he’s sick, and the last thing he wants is to inconvenience him by passing it onto you.

“Hanzo, get down from there.”

He can hear the exasperation in your voice. Part of him wants to keep climbing just to escape your undoubted disappointment at his unruly state and another part wants to assuage you and pretend that he is in perfect health.

His body makes his decision for him when he finds that he can’t take another step up the wall and gravity forces his exhausted body back to the earth. His feet touch the ground with much more force than he’s used to and he presses his forehead into the wall in defeat, willing himself to discover the secrets of quantum physics and be swallowed into the wall. He can only hope that you never bring this up ever again; it’ll haunt him several years down the line when he least expects it.

A quick peek from his peripheral tells him you had brought many gifts with you—several blankets, a tiny basin of water, and a small pot of food. It’s too bad he can’t smell anything nor does he have any appetite, he’s sure whatever the chef has cooked up is filling and delicious. Though the thought of food nearly has him running to the bathroom again, and he sinks on the furthest corner of his bed from you.

You weren’t having any of that, however, and you scoot up beside him. In your hand are some pills that he wrinkles his nose at. At your insistence though, he takes it with the water you bring, swatting your hand away when you try to help him drink.

He’s not a child, he doesn’t need to be babied. The pain in his throat almost makes him reconsider that notion.

“Why are you here?” He winces at the sound of his own voice and at the pain it brings.

“You don’t remember?”

He makes a noncommittal noise, unwilling to admit that he’s not quite sure how he ended up back here. He could have sworn he was training (or trying to). It doesn’t even cross his mind how you even know of his condition.

“D.Va found you this morning and called Soldier—you were a little too heavy for her. They brought you to the med ward, and Mercy gave you some anti-biotics before Soldier carried you back here. You scared the crap out of everyone, you know.”

The story doesn’t sound the least bit familiar to him. “But why are _you_ here?” Confusion and frustration wears on him, and any further thinking just makes his head spin.

You say nothing, instead taking the finished glass from him to set aside on the table.

“Hanzo—?”

He doesn’t notice himself slowly sliding toward you, nor does he notice that the room is growing dimmer.

“Hanzo?!”

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep again until he wakes up for the third time, feeling both entirely too cold and too warm at the same time. A shiver runs through his body when a wet towel dabbles his face. The edge of the mattress is dipped and through his blurred vision, he sees that it’s you. A cool hand runs through his damp hair, and he leans into the touch, chases after it, and _whines_ when it goes. That is quickly rectified when you drop a kiss to his forehead followed by a gentle hand that cards through his loose hair.

Under normal circumstances, he would shy away from the intimacy of your touch with a flush and a handful of complaints, but as it were, he craves it. He must look pitiful, but he’s just a bit too far gone to care.

“Hey, you hungry?”

He blinks sleepily at your wavering face above him, and shakes his head after several seconds. Food is the very last thing on his mind. He buries his chin back into his blankets, which he realizes now have multiplied to become three.

“Do you need anything?”

Again, he shakes his head.

You wipe at his face, slowly making your way down his neck and whatever you could reach without disturbing him. He’s not sure if he likes or hates it, but decides it’s infinitely better than being sticky, and it’s too much trouble to protest. However, when he feels the bed shift and you get up, he finds himself moving, much to his body’s protest.

Hanzo’s hand shoots out into the treacherous cold and wraps around your shirt in a silent bid for you to stay. He swears he hears you sigh fondly, but he thinks he can ignore that if it’ll keep you from leaving.

You slip into the blankets next to him, and he shakes from the chill that you momentarily usher into his cocoon. As much as he feared you getting sick, the comfort of having you next to him at this moment easily trumps those thoughts. He belatedly swears to himself that he’ll take responsibility if the time comes.

The warmth you emit is dry and pleasant, a welcome contrast to the sweaty chill that his body seems to be perpetually cast in, and he curls his hands into the front of your shirt, pulling you that much closer and buries his face into your chest, an action that in his right frame of mind, he would not even dare attempt. If anything, it’ll be a constant source of embarrassment come morning. Your legs tangle together, and he relishes any bit of warmth you can provide, sighing contently against you. He can almost ignore the pounding in his head and the ache of his throat and body.

Your chest rumbles with silent laughter, and you plant another kiss onto his forehead. It feels nice, and makes his chest squirm with something more than just a suppressed cough. You slip your arms around him, threading your fingers through his locks and lightly scratching his scalp. He can hear your heartbeat, steady and reassuring. It’s to this that he falls asleep again.

It isn’t until the next morning that he wakes up with a start in your arms, and with the same mortification and embarrassment a drunk would have the day after, that he remembers why you were here.

While being treated in the medbay, out of his mind with medication and sickness, he had called for you.


	33. Burden of Duty (Hanzo/Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally gifted to dickbutt.

“You almost died!”  
  
“This is a part of my duty!”  
  
“Your duty doesn’t include dying, you idiot!”  
  
“And yours is not to treat me as though I’m incompetent!”  
  
You splutter at that, anger clogging your throat and making a gnarled mess of your words.  
  
He only looks the slightest bit smug to see that his argument has stopped you in your tracks even if it has no ounce of truth to it at all. The feeling, whether it’s real or imagined, of his smugness only fans your flames of anger. He almost died, purposefully risked his life to bait Talon just so that everyone else would have a chance to escape.

It’s a noble cause, no doubt. It should be enough that he’s here, breathing heavily and covered in more bandages than clothes, but alive. However, that infuriating look deepens, becomes a hair too unbearable, and the rage and relief comes roaring through your being and—  
  
You grab him by the face—it’s not until much later realize that he never tried to stop you—and slam your lips against his. Vaguely, you hear some noise of surprise from the man, but amidst the heat and the racing urgency of proving him wrong and conveying just how stupid he was being, you could not care less.  
  
He does not kiss back, jaw rigid beneath your fingertips but his pulse races as madly as yours—or is it that your heart is just so strong that you are mistaking it for your own? It didn’t matter.

You pull back with a lewd and audible pop, the very real feeling of Hanzo beneath your hands—warm, bandaged, but ultimately _alive_ —allows for the bone-deep exhaustion that you’ve barely kept contained gushing forth, sapping you of strength and every bit of you slackens with in a long-exhale. You rest your forehead against his for a moment to catch your breath, and then pull back again to look him in the eyes.  
  
“Don’t do that again. You scared me.”  
  
He stares at you wordlessly, letting the silence stretch for an eternity before the creep of embarrassment finally reaches your cheeks and threatens to drown you in a pool of hazy shame. It’s only sheer force of will and the internalized thought of “ _you nearly died_ ” that allows you to keep looking him in the eye. They’re pretty, even now—shadowed by bandages and dark circles—its amber color so warm and contrary his personality.  
  
Suddenly, his face screws up into an unreadable expression and you feel pressure at the back of your head before your lips are mashed against his again, this time, his lips are curved upward in a smirk. His fingers dig into the base of your skull, pulling you impossibly closer and robbing you of room to breathe until you’re dizzy and buzzing.

This kiss becomes a touch softer and Hanzo’s grip slackens bit by bit until he’s just cradling your head so sweetly that you could swear you could cry. You break the kiss for a moment to catch your breath, but find Hanzo in your space again, chasing and insistent, meeting your lips again.

By the time you both break apart, your eyes can barely remain open and it takes a moment to remember where you were and who you were with until Hanzo chuckles and you snap your eyes open to muster a less-than-half-hearted glare.

“I’m still angry,” you mutter, eyes flicking down and feeling slightly vindicated when you say his red, red lips.

“Are you now?” he asks smoothly, eying you carefully, mirroring the path of your eyes and lingering at your lips.

“Might need another few of those to make me feel better.”

He laughs and the sound sends a thrill through your stomach—he’s alive, he’s laughing, he’s okay.

“Oh? Is that all? You wouldn’t want it to continue…?”

“Maybe make it a part of your duty?”

Again, he laughs, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “That would not be a duty. It would be an honor.”


	34. Blue Skies, Dark Eyes (Hanzo/Reader)

The sky is so blue, almost frighteningly so.

It’s so bright, it looks like it could go on forever, uninterrupted by clouds or planes or animals. It is infinity, and it dwarfs you in a way only the universe and a healthy bit of existential crisis ever could.

That is until Hanzo’s face interrupts, far too close and too dark, mouth moving around unheard words. Your ears ring from the force of his voice. He’s saying something, something important if he’s moving his mouth so much, but he’s far too loud and it takes too long for you to grasp a single word for it to be intelligible.  
  
The sky returns in a scaly blur. He’s moving you too much. Why is he changing your position? You were comfortable. You’re not even sure what he does, but suddenly, you can see his face much better. It’s close. He looks so angry, teeth clenched, eyes dark, and face scrunched up so tightly, you could swear it’ll stay that way.  
  
You want to move away. He’s jostling you too much, his fingers digging into the underside of your jaw with too much force. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s not comfortable. Something warm gushes from the corner of your lips and those fingers tighten.

Ugh. Now he’s making you drool. The bastard.  
  
A painful pull on your lungs make you choke and wheeze, and your world catches a glimpse of red.  
  
Oh.

That’s not saliva.

(Good. Now Hanzo can’t make fun of you for drooling.)

Strange, though. There’s no pain accompanying it, and you don’t really feel anything except the pressure of Hanzo’s fingers pressing insistently into your throat.

Ugh. If he wants you dead, he may as well be done with it. At the very least, he should move so you could see that terrifyingly wide and infinite blue. It’d be better than having him look at you like that.

You don’t quite know what that look is, but you do not have the luxury to think on it, not when your world goes dim and his expression, dark with that unknown, stormy emotion, becomes the last thing you see, and the shouts of what could be your name chases you into the abyss.

The sky is much smaller, much more manageable when framed by the window of your hospital room, even more so when obscured by curtains that tease at the endless blue when a breeze comes by. Less sublime.

With your surgery came a raging fever that Angela (among others) had feared you would never recover from. Even now, you’re not quite sure what you’re in there for, why you even had surgery; your memory hazy except for an endless— _infinite_ —blue.

The door slides open and you barely tear your eyes away from the window until you finally hear Hanzo’s voice, a little surprised and a little breathless.

“You’re awake.”

Reluctantly tearing your eyes away from the enchanting blue, you turn your head until you can see him.

The archer looks a little worse for wear, only hints of the dark expression from that day—how long ago was that?—remaining. But that does not last long. It’s back, full-force as he takes two quick strides up to your bedside, casting a tall, ominous shadow over you.

You blink slowly at him, focusing on the deep and expansive purples beneath his eyes, the clench of this teeth, the deep crease between his brows. It’s a terrible look that stirs something in your gut, but it is not enough to spur you into action.  
  
“You are a fool,” he snaps, voice rough and a little raspy. His fists are clenched so hard, his arms are shaking. “You—” He chokes on the words. “You could have _died_.”

Well, of course. That’s a very real risk in your line of work. At any moment, you could die. But what did Hanzo care?

You could only blink at him, slowly. That’s not the right answer apparently. Hanzo springs forward, his hands gripping both the bed rails, shaking the hover-bed. The tubes and tape tug and pull at you, and an uncomfortable burst of color blooms in your vision even when you close your eyes, groaning. Somewhere inside, you had some choice words for the assassin, but couldn’t muster the strength to wield them. They’ll just have to remain hidden for now.

He draws back just as quickly with a sharp gasp.

“…I—”

Through narrowed eyes, you see him again, seeming smaller than when he first came in. He has that look again and you struggle to understand.

More tired. Less angry. More…

_Oh._

The realization comes politely, gently, like a drifting feather but the weight of its implications were so many million times heavier. It cleaves a path through the fog in your mind.  
  
Hanzo wasn’t angry at all.  
  
He was _terrified_.

Oh.

You reach out with one hand, letting it hover between you both. An olive branch of sorts. You hold your breath, waiting.

His eyes flit between your hand and face.

His expression shifts into something deeper, darker. Every angle on his face becomes weary and thick.

The archer, you thought, was always unshakable. The Earth could crumble beneath his feet and the Heavens could fall apart on top of him and he’d still be there, annoyed but not broken. It’s a testament to his self-control, his pride, his life. You’d never thought you’d see the day he was afraid of anything.

But he is only human.

Hanzo proves as much when he gingerly takes your hand, waits a moment and two, then grasps onto it for dear life, using it to reel himself close to you, holds your hands close to his chest, muttering worries coated in callous insults (“You should not have,” “You’re a fool,” “You do not understand your own worth.”). You endure his concerns if only to see the darkness lift from his eyes.


	35. Kiss the Cook (Hanzo/Reader)

“May I have a moment of your time, Chef?”

You blink at Hanzo who has stuck his head through the service window, resisting the reflexive scrunch of your face.

“Yes, how may I help you, Agent Hanzo?”

Now he scrunches his, still annoyed with the fact that you refuse to say his name normally. You bite down a laugh. He wouldn’t like that too much no matter how tolerant he was of you.

“I require your presence. Out here.”

Now that is interesting.

“I’ll be right there.” You turn off all your appliances and out away anything that would perish or risk contamination in the next thirty or so minutes. It’s unusual for Hanzo to call you out of the kitchen during working hours. He normally waits until you’ve finished dinner service or your prep work, keeping you company outside the boundaries of the partition that separates those who cook and those who eat.

You untie your apron and hang it by the door—it’s messy and Hanzo isn’t someone who really enjoyed mess.

He’s waiting for you outside and greets you with a tentative smile and a wave of his hand.

“I have a gift for you,” he says as you get within arm’s length.

You tilt your head to the side. A gift? For what occasion? You bring your hand to your mouth as you search your brain desperately for an answer. An anniversary? A birthday? A holiday? Nothing comes to mind.

Hanzo chuckles, pushing a small bundle into your chest. It unfurls itself and he gestures with his head to take a look, the beginnings of a smug smile on his face.

“What is…” Your vision goes blurry trying to read the upside-down text of the…apron he has set on you. “…‘Kiss…the cook’?”

“Gladly.”

And Hanzo closes the gap between the both of you until you can feel that smug, self-satisfied smile on his lips against yours, wet and a little gentler than his demeanor would allow. It warms something inside your chest and you can’t help but mirror the smile against him. You pull back, lips tingling, for a laugh before you tap your forehead against his with a, “Thank you,” and resume what he has started.


	36. Ways to Say 'I love you' (Hanzo/Reader)

“So, Hanzo’s _never_ said it before?” 

You look up with a mouthful of cereal and take a moment to ponder the question before swallowing and shaking your head. “Nope, not once.”

“Not even in Japanese? Really?” inquires Lena, eyes growing curiously wide as if such a thing were unfathomable.

“Not that I know of.”

“But that’s not unusual,” Hana interjects, not even looking up for her handheld console. “Asian culture is like that. We just don’t say it. Not even to family, really.” 

“Say what?” Mei suddenly pokes herself into the tiny kitchen of the safehouse you’ve all taken refuge in for this mission, curiosity piqued now that her culture has been indirectly mentioned. She doesn’t even wait for an answer before a light bulb seems to go off in her head. “ _Oh_! Is it the”–her voice drops to a whisper for some reason— “‘I love you’s?”

“Yeah, that’s it!” Lena swoops in on the opportunity to question you further. “Are you _sure_ he’s never said it? You both have been dating for—what—a year now. Surely the grump must’ve said something.”

You close your eyes and lean back into your chair, thinking. You’re almost one hundred percent sure that you’ve never heard him say such things to you. 

Not when you’re both on the cusp of sleep and he’s murmuring whatever his sub-conscious dares come up with, holding you close to him like you’re going to disappear; not when you return after a long mission and he’s waiting for you at the landing site regardless of the time of day (or night); not when he hands you your bags (you’d later discover some sort of food item packed inside) as you’re about to leave for a mission, wishing you to return in one piece; not when you were left injured in the medbay after a particularly grueling mission and he sat beside you the entire time, hand in yours. 

But you don’t need to hear those words when his actions themselves proclaim his affection just as loudly as if he were shouting it from the highest mountains. After all, there are many different ways to say that you love someone, and not all are spoken. 

“Nope. Definitely never said it.” 


	37. Heart Rate (Hanzo/Reader)

It’s always difficult to gauge Hanzo’s interest in displays of affection. Hugs were always returned with some reluctance, generally with one arm and a cautious pat on your back. Hand-holding was tolerated with a too-tight grip that required your intervention to return the circulation to your digits. Kisses were…well, you could never really tell. It was usually met with bland enthusiasm followed by the turn of his head.

To say it was off-putting was an understatement.

That is, until Hanzo managed to land himself in the infirmary for several days, tethered to a medbay bed by wires, IVs, and the like, the steady beeping of the heart monitor filling in the silence between you both.

“You do not have to be here,” Hanzo grumbles finally, a slight weary rasp in his voice.

“I want to be.”

“Your time is wasted on me.” He gestures at all the wires. “I will not be leaving any time soon.”

You smile at him despite his prickliness and raise a hand, smoothing back his bangs gently. He snaps his head back. “Do not treat me like a child.”

You hold in a laugh as he gives you a displeased scowl. “I’m not. I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”

He mumbles something incomprehensible underneath his breath, but before those words could become audible, you lean in to give him quick, reassuring kiss. As expected, his reaction is lukewarm: a slight press of his dry lips against yours to acknowledge the gesture before he pulls back, face turned away.

You resist the urge to sigh at his behavior, wavering somewhere between fond and frustrated that you’ve been together this long and Hanzo still acts like he’s not a part of an actual relationship. Maybe it’s just you. Maybe he’s just humoring you and this whole relationship was just one big jok–

Beep. Beep. Beep, beep, beepbeepbeepbeep _be-bee-bee-beep_

The heart monitor goes off wildly, the numbers climbing from their restful number straight up–88, 89, 91, 92, 94…

“Hanzo?”

He says nothing, the incessant noise only increasing in intensity and speed.

You look at the back of his head before your eyes drop down to the nape of his neck, mostly covered by his hair, but in the areas where it parts, there is splotches of rosy pink. Your mouth drops open.

“Oh. _Oh!_ Oooh!” You have to cover your mouth to keep yourself from laughing, both in amusement and a long-sought relief that comes cascading over you in waves.

Maybe it’s not you, after all, and this relationship is just a work-in-progress.


	38. Infection (Hanzo & Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Angst

“What would they have done if you didn’t?”

Hanzo takes two large gulps from his gourd, audible in the quiet night. You wait as he breaks from it with a popping gasp, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“Shamed me,” he rasps, “punished me. Worse. They would have killed him themselves.”

He squints out toward the moon, face flush and eyes dark, thick brows furrowed together as he tried to string together the thoughts that plagued him for so long.

“I could not allow that. Not as the Head of the Clan. Not as his brother. I could not—would never—allow anyone else to do it.” The archer punctuates that with another noisy gulp, throwing his head back to catch every last drop. He bares his teeth in a snarl. “They were not worthy. Genji—my brother—is a Shimada. I will not allow him to be killed by anyone else—Genji is…will not fall so easily to them. I was better. The obvious choice.”

“And if you both ran away?”

He barks a laugh, hollow and lacking any ounce of humor.

“Where would you have us run to? Overwatch? Talon? Outside Japan? _Ha_!”

Hanzo slammed his sake gourd down beside him with such force, you swear you hear a crack and hope it’s not the bottle.

“And who would help us?! Two brothers who know nothing but killing? Wanted by an entire clan of assassins and more.” Another slam. “Foolish!” Then, “What sort of leader runs away from his obligations—from the ones he leads? A coward. I was no coward. I did what I must.”

He attempts to take another swig but scowls when he finds it empty. “And I would do it again.”

The declaration sends a chill up your spine and a stutter in your breath. Hanzo, ever so perceptive even when drunk, does not let that go unnoticed.

"You judge me, but you know nothing,” he says solemnly, pinning you with an exasperated glare that’s only offset by the red staining his cheeks. “Nothing about my obligations. My duties. My clan—do you know how many people I had to lead?”

He spreads out his arms slowly into the darkness as if presenting to you a vast treasure that once was.

“Hundreds. Then thousands—all of Hanamura was my home. My castle. Mine. Mine to control. Mine to protect. To expand and to care for. Thousands of people.

“And Genji? He may be my brother, but he was only one person. A Shimada heir who does not honor his duty, who forsakes the clan for his own self-interests and abandons hundreds of years of tradition because he is bored with it. That was all Genji was. A child who did not know that foolish self-indulgence has its limits.”

Hanzo’s hands drop and his head hangs, a heavy sigh deflates the thick lines of his shoulders into a full-bodied frown. You’re almost afraid he has fallen asleep when he goes still for a few heartbeats too long.

“If your leg was infected,” he slurs, “would you cut if off? Or wait for disease to kill you?” Without waiting for an answer, he shakes his head and continues loudly, “The moment it happened, you should not hesitate. Cut it off. Save everything else. Even if it leaves you crippled. You would have at least lived.”

“Is that was Genji was? An infection?”

Hanzo raises his head, bangs in his face and stares out for a few moments, drinking in the night in lieu of his alcohol, and lets his eyes slip closed.

“… _yes_.”


	39. Letting Go (Hanzo & Reader)

“Why did you not remove it then?” you ask, gesturing vaguely at his arm.

He tightens his jaw and takes a moment to answer lest the wrong one comes out of his mouth.

“I did not wish to do so without your approval. You…worked very hard on it.”

To his relief and nerves, you snort, rearranging your legs until you’re hunched over, leaning an elbow against your knee in a more familiar and casual pose.

“Cute answer. Shall I give you some candy for it?” You laugh while he endures the ridicule. You’re not so much older than him that he cannot give you some hell, but being a master of your craft and being in your workshop—your house—he holds his tongue until you stop and look at him. Unconsciously, he pulls a face.

“But the real reason is because you still can’t let go, right?”

The question hangs in the air like a noose around his neck ready to hang him should he speak carelessly. He doesn’t have to say anything.

You continue with that look on your face, attempting to seem light-hearted and casual, but your gaze is heavy and piercing.

“Somewhere in your heart, maybe closer to the surface than we’d know, you’re still hanging onto some hope. That you can return the clan back to what it once was. That you can go back to what you once had. That you can still be the Master of the Shimada clan. That you are still somebody. And you're just using me as an excuse." 


	40. Trash Talk (Hanzo & Reader)

A training bot is felled by an arrow straight through its optic lens, exploding and falling into a heap in the middle of the training room. Before the bot even has a chance to be replaced, another arrow sails over the still sparking pile and straight at the open doors where the next is expected to come. 

The sound of electronic anguish is heard, but nothing more. 

“Unworthy.”

There’s a moment of silence where Hanzo takes up a different perch while the remains of the fallen bots are cleaned and then replaced by a horde of new ones who swarm the area at seemingly random patterns. He takes his first shot carefully at the fastest moving one near the corner of the room—a difficult shot with the obstacles that lie in his path. 

That doesn’t deter him, however, and he lets go of his arrow, not even bothering to watch it explode as he tries to find a different vantage point, something more difficult. But the sound of destroyed machinery does make his lips quirk upward a bit as he lets out a haughty, “Hm, weakling.” 

Hanzo runs silently through the obstacles, careful not to let his footfalls make any noise. As he ducks from hiding place to hiding place, he sizes up his prey and in the span of a second, three arrows fly out in succession, each striking a moving bot in the head with frightening precision accuracy. A true testament to his skill. 

“You will never amount to anything,” he mutters out loud as he jumps up to fire off another arrow. 

“Are you talking about yourself, Hanz’?” you ask as you wander into the spectator area high above the training center, hand on your hip as you watch him lay waste to the multitude of robots that come out as sacrifices for his ego. 

He flinches minutely at your accusation, an arrow barely nicking the head of a training bot who continues onto its path like nothing happened. 

“My name is _Hanzo_ , mechanic, you will do well to remember it.” He looks up, an immediate glare willing you to continue speaking if you dared.

You did. “Mm-hm, got it. But I can’t imagine that you’re not talking about yourself. The training bots…they don’t grow or get better or anything.” 

“They are merely—”

“ _Training bots_ , Hanz’.”

“—don’t call me that. They are merely weak, far from a challenge,” he finishes darkly. You had to hide your smile behind a hand when he scowls (read:pouts) at you. 

“Oh, that hurts me.” You put a gloved hand to your chest. “But you _are_ on ‘easy mode’ at the moment, so forgive me if they don’t meet your expectations.” 

“Then increase the difficulty if you do not wish for them to be insulted,” Hanzo grouses, climbing back down from his perch and to another point. It seems that you have treaded rather heavily on his pride. You suspect he must be at least a little self-conscious after having someone hear him talk to himself. It might be best for your wellbeing to omit the fact that he’s the one who picked ‘easy mode’ in the first place. 

“If you’re still prickly about the me ‘hearing you talk to yourself about yourself while trying to disguise it as really bad trash talk’, you don’t have to worry about it. I mean, Lúcio does it all the time, and he speaks in hockey terms.” When you don’t receive a positive response (or any, really), you supplement it with a, “It’s very endearing, you know.” 

That does nothing to placate him, and if anything, his mood is made apparent when your bots begin to fall one right after another in rapid succession until the training ground is little more than a makeshift junkyard full of sparking robot parts. You had to purse your lip at the wanton destruction. Who does he think has to procure the parts and repair these bots? It’s lucky that you don’t have to clean it. The parts are swept up by cleaning bots which are specially made to withstand stray attacks in case they are mistaken for target practice victims. 

As you walk down from the spectator’s area, you add, “You’re not a weakling, Hanz’. We like you here in Overwatch, and we definitely know your worth. So quit beating your—”

“Silence!”

His sharp command echoes in the hall, easily sends chills up your spine, and the conviction behind it is almost enough to make you obey. It is the voice of someone who is very used to giving orders and having them followed. It’s too bad you’ve received scarier orders from way more menacing people. But you’ve also been shot at for lesser things. 

So, with a reluctant, “Fine,” you wait until you’ve jumped down to the control panel and turned on the PA system to continue speaking. 

“I’m upping the difficulty level, Hanz’,”—you can barely hear him yelling “Don’t call me that” through the glass—“but just remember, we think you're strong and like you the way you are.” 

You’re suddenly very glad that the control room is reinforced glass when an arrow nearly pierces it. You’re even more glad that you have access to the high-speed cameras that catch his face turning bright red. 


	41. Sharp (Hanzo & Reader)

“Are you…sharpening knives?” 

The steady _shwishh, shwishh, shwishh_ is his only answer. He can see you behind the long and narrow service window, which as always, obscures your face (as well as your upper torso). As long as he’s been here, it is a small point of frustration that he’s never seen your face. Even more frustrating is the fact that Jesse McCree has seen it, and holds it over his head at every opportunity. If he just bends down and sticks his head through the window, he’s sure he can see you. But that would ruin…the mystery? The fun? He doesn’t know, but it wouldn’t feel right to look at you when you take such painstaking efforts to stay behind closed doors. 

Hanzo watches you—or your hands, rather—work. It may be because he’s spent so long training and looking for such things, but he couldn’t help but notice the way your hips are tucked in underneath yourself, knees bent, almost as though you were a martial artist. Your entire body moves in time with the knife that drags across the small palette of stone—metal and stone come off the stand in murky droplets. The knife is angled against the stone and remains such despite the jostling moves. Your movements, slow and deliberate, show off your strength and mindfulness despite the repetitiveness of this task. 

“Oh, Agent Hanzo.” 

The rhythmic scrapping sound stops, and Hanzo’s ears ring at the loss. Judging by your reaction, he knows you haven’t heard him the first time. 

“Hello Chef,” he says, a little self-conscious. He knows you can’t see him, but now that he has your full attention, he flounders. “…I did not know you were skilled at sharpening.” 

He sees you raise the knife and turn it this way and that, and can almost imagine you looking at it quizzically. “I guess. Chefs are supposed to maintain their equipment after all.”

“May I see?” 

Hanzo sees you hesitate for a moment before you walk out of sight without a word. He clenches his teeth to keep from voicing his disappointment. He must have scared you away, he should have never been so presumptuous. But then he hears water running and moments later, you’re at the window, and hand it off to him with little more than a “Careful, it’s sharp.” The knife is still wet and warm. He can see, now that you’re so close, that your hands are coated in dark residue and grit—the proof that you’ve been working for longer than one may assume. 

“This is a _kiritsuke_ ,” Hanzo says with naked awe, handling the utensil as though it were made of the more delicate glass. Its shines back at him despite the misty body, the polished sliver of an edge shows his own reflection—he carefully turns it away from you. “You know how to use this?”

You shrug casually; he can see it in the way your arms move. “It’s a handy knife.” 

The single bevel makes this particular knife very difficult to use. Most knives by design are double-beveled, meaning that the edge is sharpened on both the front and back. Single-beveled knives are sharpened in one direction—those with experience with double-beveled knives would be rather uncomfortable with it. 

“Do you have many knives?” 

“Mm-hm.” You take the knife back from him carefully. He can’t help but notice the way you deliberately avoid touching him with your stained hands. “Want to see?" 

Against his conscious will, his mind continues your question and twists it to include "my face”. But he shoves that thought out of his head. He knows you’re talking about knives. He asked as much. 

“I would not want to impose,” he says finally. 

“Oh, no one would mind, it’s just me nowadays anyway,” you say, a small depreciating laugh escaping. A twinge of sympathy sounds off inside his chest. 

Hanzo is treated to the largest collection of kitchen knives he’s ever seen. You place knife after knife along the entire surface of the long service window. He recognizes some of them as European (different chef’s knives, paring knives, bread knives), others as Japanese ( _gyutou_ , _deba_ , others he can’t name but has seen the family chefs use), and even some Chinese knives (there was an impressive number of Chinese cleavers) were mixed in. This is practically a treasure trove for any aspiring or professional chef or would-be killer. 

“You use _all_ these?” 

You shrug again. “There isn’t anyone else using them.”

“What is this one for?” He points to a particularly long knife, uniform in size all throughout like a thin rod or a sword.

“Oh!” You pick it up briefly. He can see it’s weighty. “This one’s called a maguro bouchou. It’s for handling large fish!” 

He points to another. “And this?”

“That’s a petty knife—this one in particular is used for carving fruits…” You demonstrate the motion of cutting into—he can almost see it—an apple, peeling off the skin and then carving out the stem and bottom.

This goes on and on until Athena reminds you both it is time to get started on dinner. 


	42. Fish Rot (Hanzo & Reader)

“You may think me a hypocrite for saying this, but what good would murdering them bring?” Hanzo asks solemnly, taking the time to pour himself another cup of sake. He finishes in one gulp and is about to pour himself another when he decides the speed of his drinking and this conversation is too slow for him and chucks the cup, drinking straight from his gourd instead.

“Bah. Killing these officials mean nothing. They have left a system that will go on without them, and so the cycle will continue. If you want to change things, you must destroy everything and rebuild. It is hard work. No one ever has the patience to rebuild.”

You’re not sure if he’s speaking from personal experience or from personal observation. Either way, you can’t find an opening to speak.

“And who are you to say you will have the patience or determination to do? Who is to say you will not build the same thing? It will only have a different name. Or that those who come with you won’t repeat this history? You would be foolish to think other–otherwise.”

You clench your fists, frustration clawing at its cage in your chest and exhaustion demanding your attention. “Then what should I do?”

Unhelpfully, Hanzo shrugs and shakes his gourd upside down, the semblance of a pout on his face as he realizes he is out of drink.

“A fish rots from the head. Eventually, you will need a new fish. How you prepare it and serve it is what matters.”


	43. Hair Washing (Hanzo & Reader)

There are times when Hanzo thinks Overwatch is too lackadaisical about their own safety, rushing into things without plans or meeting people who say they’re Overwatch’s allies without any proof except a shaky history. Then there are times when they’re overly cautious, as they should be, but in the stupidest of ways.

“‘Overwatch must not have their hair cut or be shaven by unauthorized parties.’ What is this?” Hanzo looks up from the contract, squinting at McCree and Winston.

“You ever seen the movie ‘Sweeney Todd’?”

“Actually, it was a musical play first, so it would be of no surprise to have known that first.”

Hanzo didn’t know how to respond to that other than just, “No.”

It’s regrettable because his orientation is extended for another hour while he learns about a movie (or musical) that is almost a century old about serial-killer barbers and the few barbers whom Overwatch agents are allowed to see at this point in time until all others can be confirmed to be _not_ of the throat-slitting variety.

(It’s a silly precaution, really. Hanzo is more likely to cut _their_ throats even with a hot towel over his face and three glasses of whiskey in.) 

The list of available barbers is short and the missions he goes on usually places him a full day’s vehicle ride away from the nearest one. It’s not as though he’s fussed about his hair too much—his hair was long in his youth and he usually kept his hair tied anyway. But after lending his ribbon to Satya to bandage her broken arm (which turned out to be an absolutely useless gesture because she was able to hardlight a cast for herself), and getting smacked in the face with his own hair and almost shooting Tracer clean out of the air, he figured it was time to make a deliberate pit-stop.

His expectations are low enough. Any stylist or barber who lets McCree run around look like _that_ should have their certifications revoked and then quit their profession entirely. 

Coming upon the shop in civilian’s clothes, however, he has a minor change of heart. At the very least, the salon looks better than your perceived reputation.

It’s a quiet, old-fashioned place tucked between a Starbucks and a huge office building with only two seats and a single person manning it. Unlike other establishments that put their customers on display, the wall is made of frosted glass. Pictures of hairstyles at least 10 years out of date decorate the walls alongside pictures of you in your youth standing with people he doesn’t recognize.

“Thank you for waiting, Mr. Tanaka. What can I do for you today?” you ask as you prepare your instruments, strapping them into your large belt.

“Side-shave. Both sides.”

“Would you like your beard trimmed?”

“Make it neat.”

“Sure. Would you care to have your hair washed first?”

It’s not even a debate. “Yes.”

You lead him to the back where the washing station is and you undo his ponytail with little difficulty. A towel is laid out onto the sink’s rim before you carefully guide his head back onto it. Your fingers comb through his hair a few times, skimming his ears, making his eyes close.

“Are you comfortable?”

“Mm.”

So far, your service has been passable, bereft of unnecessary small talk and full of efficiency, but it’s when the hose turns on does his evaluation of you change.

The water is tepid but the pressure is strong. You rub your fingers along his hairline and down, rubbing his scalp, easing the tension he didn’t know was there. The sounds of rushing water fills his ears, the quiet hum of an old jazzy tune bounces around the sink. Soon the smell of milky shampoo enters his nose and the hose is shut and both your hands are upon his head, working in unison to massage his head.

Unwittingly he lets out a sigh. This is bliss and it would be great if it doesn’t get ruined by having his throat slit.


	44. Punc(h)ture (Hanzo & Reader)

“Hanzo. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

The ninja did not respond to the goading, doing his best to grit his teeth and bear with the shooting pain that made everything blur and change color. He gripped his gi like a lifeline, his ribs and torso throbbing as he tried to keep his breathing under control. He can handle this much. He has to. Anything is better than receiving ‘treatment’ from you.

“Hanzo~ My patience is wearing thin,” you sang. Your voice echoed off the wall—you’re not close enough to catch him, not without getting some sort of head start. Maybe he can make it back to a hiding spot before you get your hands on him. “Hiding isn’t going to help either for you. I need you to stop wasting my time and come out~”

A bead of sweat rolls down his temple.

He’s very familiar with different methods of torture; his childhood had been very effective in teaching him how to cope. But your punches were not something he wants to subject himself to when he’s barely standing as it is—he’s not a reckless masochist like some of the other agents in Overwatch who take your ‘healing’ punches as a damn challenge.

You’re a quack doctor, that’s what you were.

“Hanzo~!”

A Shimada is afraid of no one, he told himself as he clenched his fists at his side. He took in a shaky breath and attempted to walk away. You shouldn’t be able to see him, hear him, or even know he’s there. Even injured, he’s sure he could get away with nary a clue.

Maybe his skills have deteriorated with Overwatch where he’s not running for his life on the daily, or maybe the injuries are making his steps a little heavy than usual, but his blood ran cold when he heard—felt—your presence change from something audible and obvious to almost nothing. Instinct told him to run, so he did, but you were quick (or maybe he’s just slow now).

“Gotcha!”

Hanzo barely managed to dodge a punch aimed right for his head, ducking underneath your arm. He felt your arm go by, catching just briefly against his ribbon, and was only thankful that you did not choose to follow-up your strike with an elbow.

However, that dodge took the last of his power from him.

He tumbled against a wall, barely able to support himself as his ribs protested fiercely against any further movement. Even his breathing became uninhibited, no longer steady and measured, but erratic. It gave him a burning headache and his vision swam with greens and whites and bits of blue that became even worse when he felt you put both hands against his shoulders and shove him downward.

His stomach lurched, and he gagged. If he were to throw up now, he sincerely hoped it would be all over your damn shoes.

Luckily for you, his stomach had nothing to offer, just a lot of queasiness that forced Hanzo to lie back against the wall, barely able to catch his breath.

“What sort of idiot runs away from a doctor?” You tsked, kneeling down right beside him and caging him with one arm by his head.  
  
“What sort of doctor _punches_ people!?” he wheezed right back, hoping his voice was as threatening as he meant for it to be. Dark spots were already appearing at the corners of his vision.   
  
Even Mercy and her cold, judgmental stare would be preferable to you.  
  
You shrugged a shoulder casually, lifting a fist with a wry smile on his face (a smile that, in his delirium, he found strangely endearing). “This one.”  
  
He braced himself for the hit (and potential death)—it’ll blow away the last of his consciousness, that’s for sure. He only hoped that he could at least retain his dignity without yelling out in pain.

If he knew he was going to die like this, he would have maybe made up with his brother, would have been honest with his feelings, maybe would’ve taken those therapy sessions that Mercy had referred him to, would have indulged in the last piece of cake in the kitchen, gotten more piercings in all areas of his body. There’s nothing to it now, he supposes. He just didn’t realize just how many regrets he had until he had death (you, not Reaper) staring him down in the face with a fist.  
  
However, instead of the blinding, destructive pain he expected, there was only a firm pressure on his upper chest and then just a bit more force that he couldn’t help but groan at, his body protesting and writhing to get away from the gravity of something on him that steals the breath from him. That was short-lived, however, when the cool wash of familiar healing serum courses through him. The feeling is skin deep, but it slowly seeps itself down and down into his very core, lifting the jarring pain by minute increments.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, though you were no longer in clear focus.

The only thing he could force his mouth to say was, “You…didn’t punch me.”

You gave him an unreadable look, one that he could describe as a cross between deadpanned and amused, but he couldn’t be quite sure. His eyes are so heavy.

“I’m a doctor, not a monster.”

Somehow, that made sense to him and potentially safe with the knowledge that he was in no danger of getting punched into the next world, he surrendered himself to the darkness.


	45. Five Times (Hanzo & Reader)

I.

The very first time he catches you out in the common area sleeping on a sofa, he’s too early for his morning training, having woken up from some nightmare that he can barely remember. The lingering sensations of a distant nightmare cling to him incessantly, nibbling at his temper and chasing him out of his room for some fresh air or some distraction.

The type of distraction he was hoping for was something of the ‘beating-Hana’s-high-score-at-a-game’ variety and definitely not finding out that you’ve made the common room your personal bedroom. Seeing your peaceful face and erratic sleeping posture on the communal couch, he curls his lip at the comfort you bask yourself in. It’s almost as though you’re mocking him. Ignoring a pang of envy and unjustified irritation, he turns his heel and exits swiftly, the door sliding closed behind him.

He never notices you opening your eyes, staring the closed doorway where he stood.

* * *

II.

He knows by now if he were to come by at four, you’ll still be sleeping. If he comes by at six-thirty on his way back from morning drills, any and all trace of your presence would be gone. The only signs you were there is the quickly fading indention on the couch. He doesn’t know if you return to your own room or if you actually go about your day and doesn’t think he cares enough to find out.

The curiosity gnaws at him, nonetheless. Who are you to take up the entire common room as your personal bedroom?

“Don’t you sleep in your own room?” he asks coolly over afternoon tea one day, half-way condescending and half-genuinely curious.

You give him a side-glance and shrug, take a bite out of the cookies that Ana shares.

“Sometimes.” Your answer is dismissive enough that he finds himself unwilling to pry any further. Where you slept was none of his business, he reasons. Though, it did not stop him from wondering why.

Of course, the couches are comfortable, but the beds must be marginally more so. Hanzo, having been raised in an environment where survival is key, can’t imagine wanting to sleep in an open space where enemies may attack at all angles (as evident by how he stacks his bed against two walls and keeps his head far away from the door or window).

He doesn’t ask anyone else about this. It’s not his business. And you don’t indulge him with any further details.

But now, prior to going into the kitchen for his morning fix of tea, he will stop by the common area. For what reason, he’s not sure, but he does at least for a few seconds to assure himself that you are there.

* * *

III.

It’s vintage movie night, and most of the crew is here. Hanzo is only here because Genji insists on him spending some time to understand his comrades.

If there’s one thing that Hanzo has learned tonight, it’s that Jesse McCree is not allowed to pick movies unless he is interested in watching only Westerns.

You are relaxing with everyone on the couch that he has often found you asleep on. The clock reads well past two in the morning when you all part. He hides his surprise when you leave the room with a wave and a yawn. He had expected you to stay and pull out your sleeping gear.

Perhaps you did sleep in your room, after all? He looks back at the couch, bereft of your presence entirely. It’s strange seeing it like this. Wrong, even.

He makes his way back to his own room, ignoring the strange hollow feeling at his back.

He has to train in the morning, after all.

When he awakens several short hours later, he passes by the common room as he always does—out of habit, mostly. He has to do a double-take at the far too familiar scene.

You’re already there, blanket and pillow, dead to the world.

He nods at you, fully knowing you won’t return it, and then leaves, a little more secure in this knowledge. If there’s another thing he’s learned tonight, it’s that you’re going to be there.

* * *

IV.

It is the usual time for his training. Hanzo stops by the common area for his routine two-second check-up.

But today is different.

Inside the room, he spies McCree with you. The cowboy is sipping something, your head in his lap, nestled deep into his stomach. At the sound of the door sliding opening, McCree raises his head and eyebrows wearily, then his cup follows when he sees Hanzo. Hanzo stays frozen at the doorway. In all his weeks of doing this, he didn’t expect to see someone else here.

Something in his chest burns, and a knot in his stomach twists uncomfortably at the somewhat intimate sight. He turns his heel and leaves without a word.

His target practice does not go over so well that day.

The days following, Hanzo does not drop by, convinces himself that he is being rude and intrusive and that there is no reason why he should feel even an iota of anger at the fact that Jesse McCree has also seen you at your most vulnerable or that he’s sitting like he belongs there and that you sleep willing and defenseless or—

He bites his lip white to stave off the path his thoughts were taking. The world spins slightly around him. He squeezes his eyes shut and exhales harshly, trying to ground his thoughts into dust—god, he’s a fool.

* * *

V.

He knows he’s being unfairly short and curt with you when you see each other in the communal kitchen. If you notice it, you don’t say anything about it. However, his brother notices it, asks him if you’re fighting. He denies it.

And as if to prove it to himself, he finally returns to his routine of stopping by the common room.

There is someone else with you this time. He’s about to turn and leave, similar to the time he saw McCree with you—it’s childish and unwarranted, he knows—but something in his mind stops him and urges him to stay. The light behind him barely allows him to see into the room and make out the figure who is curled beneath your blankets and tucked almost protectively beneath your arm.

But he recognizes the shape of the figure in your care and something tugs harshly at his heart.

Hana.

He crosses the room in an instant, apprehension of intruding on this space while you slept in it, forgotten. He can see Hana’s face is slightly puffy and red around her eyes, her nose the same way. Her hands arms are tight around your torso, and her head tucked beneath your chin, drawing her close. Again, an ache sounds off in Hanzo’s chest, stronger this time.

Was it pity? Sympathy? He doesn’t rightfully know. But he understands.

Hana may be fierce and strong, larger than life and full of energy, but at the end of the day, she’s still only twenty years old. It’s unsurprising that these fights would take a toll on her, that she would seek solace in another human being.

Hanzo delicately brushed stray hair from the young girl’s face, careful not to disturb her. She needed her rest, and if she could find comfort in your arms, he couldn’t complain. He would never want someone like her to go through this alone—not like him.

Maybe, just maybe if he had someone to go to when he was at his lowest, he wouldn’t be such a mess of a person.

While he was lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t notice you open your eyes, watching him watch Hana. When he does, however, he’s not surprised. Like a puzzle piece slowly sliding into place, he thinks he finally understands why you sleep out here now.

* * *

VI.

Hanzo awakens from a nightmare—one that haunts him with more ferocity than usual. No amount of tossing and turning could bring him back to sleep.

Perhaps it’s because he’s been with Overwatch too long and has gotten too used to the company of these oddballs. But the idea of being alone is no longer appealing, especially not when the objects of his fear are so clear in his mind that he only needs to hold still for a moment before they threaten him with their (imaginary) presence.

He walks quickly to the common room. You’ll be there, he knows you will be. But doesn’t know if there will be someone else.

The door opens and for a moment he holds his breath.

It’s just you, sleeping without a care in the world.

Hanzo breathes a private sigh of relief.

He should be satisfied with this, but the poltergeists are close—of an imaginary dead brother, of a potentially more realistic father, of the manifestation of the responsibilities he once was proud to bear. Their encroaching presences forces him to take a step forward.

Then another.

He’s half way into the room before he feels marginally secure, knowing that they will not come with another so close. Even the ghosts of his fears would not risk letting others see his weakness. Pride is a powerful and deadly thing.

As if sensing his presence (or perhaps you’ve just been waiting), you open your eyes calmly like you’ve been awake the entire time, lucid and very much focused on him. It’s only in your voice does he know you’ve actually been asleep.

“Come here.” As exhausted as you sound, it’s also commanding like a tether or a leash that you were using to reel him in.

He approaches slowly, hesitant. You press yourself deeper into the couch and lift your blankets in invitation.

In his mind’s eye, he sees Hana, sleeping with red-rimmed eyes and borrowed comfort. He sees McCree, warm drink and weary face, held down to the earth with the weight of your head across his lap.

He sits on the edge at first, the residual heat on the couch warms his hands. Your arm is still up—it must be aching by now. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself before he carefully slips his legs onto the couch, and lies down with his arms tucked into himself, conscious of your body, determined not to intrude and touch you.

But you had no such thoughts as the arm finally comes down, and all at once, your press his body close, cradle his head into the hollow of your neck and draw the blankets securely over his shoulders. He jerks, the intimate gesture too sudden and too strong, but forces himself still again. 

It’s warm, excruciatingly so. Confining. Uncomfortable. You have a warm, musky smell of someone who has slept too much—it vaguely reminds him of the days he would accidentally oversleep and rush to the shower, determined to be clean and presentable for whatever tasks he had that day.

“Relax,” you mumble above him, nudging his shoulders with your arm.

He begrudgingly attempts to do so, loosening his shoulders and shifting his position so he’s more comfortable. The couch itself is not very big, barely able to accommodate you both. In the end, he turns himself around entirely, his back to your chest.

Behind him, you hum quietly, the rumbling tickles his back and travels to his fingertips and toes.

He does not particularly like noise when he sleeps. It only serves to distract him from any dangers that may approach. Logically, he is safe here. In the Watchpoint of an illegal organization that has the whole world out for its blood. Yes, he is completely secure here in the arms of the one agent who chooses to sleep out in the open without any protection barring an old blanket. If he were still a mercenary-for-hire, you’d be long dead.

His bitter, sarcastic thoughts slowly turn into static, the remains of his nightmare gradually eaten away.


	46. Success (Hanzo-centric)

“Every success is a given,” Hanzo spat, a little too wild and a little too forceful, like he was trying to dig the words into stone. “If I do not succeed, then what was all my work for?”

Then his voice dropped, gravelly and disdained. “And every failure? It is because I did not try hard enough.”

“But there are just some factors outside your control–”

“And even so! If I cannot overcome them, then what is the meaning of having worked hard for it?” he yelled. For the first time, there is a desperation to his voice–to his eyes–that makes him more of a child than the man he projected himself to be. “Then what was the meaning of ever having tried at all?” 

Nothing was ever ‘enough’. Absolute success was a minimum. This was his way of life, and there was so little anyone could do to make him think otherwise. Forty years of this thinking cannot be undone in a day, and Hanzo, stubborn Hanzo, was too locked in place to take his first step.


	47. Sun Kiss (McCree/Reader)

Jesse laughs as you pepper his cheekbones with feathery presses of your lips. Gentle, loving.

“Slow down there, sugar. What’s the occasion?”

You pull away long enough to flash him a smile, and say, “Your freckles are cute.” A kiss against his nose. “Hella cute.”

He chuckles, tilting his face to give you more access to the blemishes you seem to like so much. He never cared for them very much one way or another. Not until you came along anyway.

You indulge yourself a bit more, stroking his scruffy jaw with your fingers on either side of his face.

“Y'know in some places they’re called sun kisses?” he asks idly, rubbing his thumb against your hip, the other hand firm against your thigh.

“Oh?”

He grins slyly.

“So you must be my darlin’ sun.”

You burst out laughing at the cheesiness, only to be muffled by Jesse’s own lips, smiling against yours.


	48. Accompaniment (McCree/Reader)

Very rarely does Blackwatch ask Overwatch for medic accompaniment, and for good reasons.

Firstly, they have no need for it—a majority of their missions are solo endeavors, covert, and without the need to directly engage in combat (just because they have no need to doesn’t mean they won’t). Secondly, they have a standing casualty record of 67% for all medics who are unfortunate enough to join Blackwatch on a mission. The 30% is alone held by Doctor Angela Ziegler who actually volunteers her services and comes back relatively unscathed. How she does it is anyone’s guess, but it easily earns her the instant respect of all those who cross her path—Blackwatch, her staff, or otherwise.

And the final 3%? Well.

“I’m sorry, Gabriel, but I can’t accompany your group on this mission.”

“Come on, doc. They need you on this one.”

You backtrack when you hear the voices in your boss’s office. Was that Commander Reyes? Curiosity has your hand on the button already.

“Gabriel, I have already been assigned to spearhead and effort in—oh, hello there.”

You wave minutely as you enter her office, mouth too occupied with a bagel to say your greetings.

“Well, doc. If you’re too busy,” the Blackwatch Commander says loudly, “maybe you could spare one of your staff.” You don’t like the way he eyes you, the growing grin on his face spelling nothing but bad news. Maybe you should’ve minded your own business.

McCree plays with his lighter, barely listening to the mission brief. ‘Infiltration’, ‘expect resistance’, ‘destroy’, ‘get out alive’. It’s the same old, except it’s a team mission this time—apparently the target is too big to be taken out by a single person. What bull. The only thing that really catches his (and the other people on the room’s) attention is you when you step in, the white lab coat a stark contrast to the black gear that everyone in the room wears. It almost symbolic. Jesse lifts a thumb under his hat and leans forward in his chair, incredulous. 

“You serious, Gabe? You’re sending in a no name _medic_ with us? Where’s Angela?” He says ‘medic’ like it’s a curse and the rest of the room murmur various noises of agreement. Reyes does not seem amused or particularly bothered for that matter. This is definitely not the first time he’s had to hear of this complaint (and he suspects it won’t be the last). You, on the other hand, look irritated.

“ _Doctor Ziegler_ is occupied. I have a name, and _I_ will be looking after you on this mission.” When you give your name, McCree does not even bother to remember it. He doesn’t expect to ever see you again anyway. Just like all the others.

“You hit your head or somethin’? You ain’t no Angela.”

No one willingly looks after Blackwatch unless they’re one of them or is being coerced to do so. There are too many dangers involved, and he sees the way people especially medics look at them, like they’re a plague. “Just to set the record straight, this ain’t no babysitting’ job. We ain’t gonna be taking care of you.” 

Jesse ignores the hiss of “ _McCree_!” from his boss and stares you down from his seat. You cross your arms and he does the same, a steady standoff between the two of you. 

“I know. I already said _I’m_ taking care of you guys.” 

“And I said we ain’t gonna be taking care of _you_.” 

Someone else sighs. “What he means is that in Blackwatch, everyone for themselves.”

“It’s fine if you’re a medic and all, we’re thankful that you’re here—” Someone shouts, ‘ _Speak for yourself_ ’— “hey, shut up! But just try not to get in our way. Or killed,” another says exasperatedly, waving a hand around. 

“ _Enough_ , all of you.” Gabriel’s voice is laden with something akin to disappointment and a sense of finality that has everyone straightening themselves in their seats. “Save your whining for Morrison. For now, I want you _all_ back. Alive. Do I make myself clear?”

Everyone responds affirmatively, including you. 

“Don’t worry about them. They’re not bad people,” Gabriel says to you quietly. 

Jesse rolls his eyes, knowing that they’ll all return alive. The real question is: will they all return unharmed?

“Good. The mission begins at 2200. Get moving.” 

Just like that, they’re all dismissed. 

However, Gabriel catches Jesse by the door with a heavy clap on the shoulder. There is a menacing grin on his boss’s face sends chills up and down his spine. 

“Did I see you roll your eyes at me just now, Jesse McCree?” 

Fuck. 

* * *

You’ve heard the rumors from your colleagues. ‘They don’t care about medics’, ‘They’ll just leave you to die’, and countless stories and recollections of injuries that they’ve received while working with them. Judging by the exchange during the mission brief, the rumors held some semblance of truth to them. 

But one thing struck you about all their stories: everyone came back. As a matter of fact, you’ve never heard of anyone dying when they’re with Blackwatch. (There were a few hostage situations and close calls, but the medics would always return alive even if the rest of the team didn’t.)

On the day of the mission, Commander Reyes stresses the dangers associated with this mission, but he also personally assured you that no matter what, his men will return you safely—regardless the cost. You aren’t quite sure what drives him to say such things, but he is clearly sincere. You thank him for his encouragement, but it isn’t the first time you’d be stepping on a battlefield as active support. You just hope that your skills haven’t gotten too dull. 

All five of you are whisked away in a camouflaged truck in the dead of night. The trip was a mix of tense and nonchalant strangely enough. There is some small talk between yourself and a few of the agents, but no one makes any mention of _this mission_. 

When the truck stops, they all scatter in different directions, leaving you awkwardly in the open until the driver tells you to get the hell out.

It speaks volumes of how they are all unused to teamwork.

You try to hide yourself away quickly in between the darkened alleys of two buildings. The mission’s outline is to scope out an anti-omnic center and take out some data that could be helpful to Blackwatch. That’s only on the surface, however. The reality is that these forces are actually run by pro-omnic activists who are attempting to trap every anti-omnic force in the area and destroy them in one go with a bomb at the center of the building. The bomb itself is said to be an anti-omnic weapon that will force everything in the area of short-circuit, giving the humans a method of override their programming and shut them all down in one go. But that’s far from the truth. 

If the bomb goes off, the damage could be immeasurable to human life. Blackwatch’s job is to dismantle the thing and find the design plans to the bomb, make copies of it, and then destroy it. There is expectation of a firefight. 

Your orders were to assist the team, but not get too close to the actual site. This is technically a covert mission—in and out—if the agents get injured, they need to come to you. Once the mission is over, you all call for the truck to get the team out of here. None of you can afford to go big or get caught. Technically, the omnics can’t have themselves move too careless either. This entire city is anti-omnic. If they’re also caught here, there’s no telling what could happen. It’s a battle of stealth and speed. The one who can fulfill their mission first, wins.

You wait, the anxiety of not knowing gnaws at you. Every moving shadow seems like it could be an enemy, and the stillness of the night hints at something bigger to come. Hours seem to drag on by.

Your earpiece crackling to life makes you jump out of your skin. It seems like they’ve made it. “Shit. There are others connected to this thing. I think this whole city is rigged.” Your heart plunges into your stomach and leaves you feeling numb. The whole city? 

There is quick back and forth chatter over the communication device. So quick, you can barely follow. They use code words and jargon that you do not recognize. The only thing you can follow is the clipped southern accent that seems to grate just a little on your nerves accompanied by sounds of a scuffle. 

Everything goes silent again. 

“Oh shit. We’re found.” 

It’s the only warning you get before you hear it: gunfire. And it’s not from your earpiece. You stick your head out and catch the sight of glowing red piercing through the darkness of the night and the quiet sounds of running and…spinning spurs? 

Something rolls in the corner of your eye, and you turn to see Jesse McCree on the other side of the alley. He’s heaving, one arm pressed against his side, leaning heavily against the stone like it’s the only thing supporting him, and the other arm holds a gun up to his face. Where were the others? You didn’t know, but you didn’t really have time to care about that right now. 

“Hey McJesse! Get over here!” you hiss loudly, a syringe of glowing serum already in hand.

He just gives you a look of annoyance before he reloads his gun and charges—away from you. “Hey! Get back her-hey!”

He doesn’t look back.

You abandon your hiding spot, and chase after the fool. You can tell his injuries are not light. That only means that you have to get to him before they get any worse. 

The injuries don’t let McCree get very far, and you see him hiding behind some other building. He sees you and tries to get up and make a break for it. For what reason, you don’t know. You breathe in sharply and grab him by the arm. He tries to wrestle himself out of your grip, but the combined pain in his shoulder and ribs doesn’t let him get very far. 

“Let go!”

“Hold still,” you growl, holding up the glowing syringe to the site of injury. At this distance, you can see he’s been hit on his temple, blood running down his face and into his eye. His visibility must be crap right now. What happened in the facility? If you looked closer, you could see the places where his clothes were torn by gunfire. 

“Make it quick. I gotta job to do. And the name’s ‘McCree’. Get it right.”

You both didn’t have time to spare. The omnics were nearby and can fire faster than either of you can run. He hisses when you inject him, the medicine making its course through his veins. 

“Okay, you’re good. Should stop the pain…hey, wait!” Before he can get up, you quickly wipe his face with your sleeve. He yanks his face and hand away from you like it burns and looks at you like you’re insane. Time stands still for a moment, and not another word is shared between you two before an explosion sends you ducking into each other for cover. Another one rocks the earth, and this one is much closer than the last. 

The explosion leaves your ears and even limbs ringing, shaking you to the core. You could even feel the heat of it through your gear. Several more go off, and for a moment, you fear for your life and that of the man who covers you with his own body. Your fingers tremble and it makes it way to your stomach, and suddenly, you want to vomit. It’s been too long; you don’t think you can actually handle this. 

The communicator in your ear spouts something—you vaguely realize that you can’t hear anything. Or at least, you can’t make any sense of the noises that come at you. There is only sharp ringing that seems to resonate in your brain. 

Large hands haul you up by the underside of your arms and you’re forcibly dragged out of the steadily burning site. You try to run and keep up with McCree’s pace, but your knees are shaking. You stumble more than you actually walk. Why won’t they move? You’ve been on battlefields before, you shouldn’t be acting like this. Some faraway part of you thinks it must be the complacency of the office, it’s made you dull. 

The extraction does not take long, the other agents already gathered inside the truck. They all haul you inside the truck when McCree shoves you in there. He does a quick sweep of the vicinity and yells something at the driver, who takes off into the night, leaving behind the scenery that slowly goes up in smoke. 

Mission failed, you supposed. 

* * *

The truck ride is silent. You are silent. Jesse watches you sit there, shivering even with another agent’s jacket draped over your shoulders. Any attempts by someone else at small talk was ignored, you seemed to be in your own head, unaware of the world. 

Shock, huh? 

He’s not very surprised. It’s the natural result for some academic who’s spent their entire life in school and hospitals and _normal_ places. The warzone is no place for bleeding hearts of the figurative kind. Just like all the others, you weren’t able to make much of a difference. 

‘Well, guess that’s the end of the line,’ he thinks to himself callously as he puts a cigarette to his lips, only to get his lighter snatched away. 

“Not during transport,” another agent says. He grumbles his displeasure but does not try to light up again. 

When the truck arrives back at base, you still do not show any sign of responding. Jesse strides past you without a word of thanks or goodbye. He stubbornly ignores the nagging feeling of something inside him that tells him to turn around and at least say something to you for your efforts. 

Blackwatch does not need medics on the field. There is no place for them.

* * *

You go about your days quietly, your colleagues all inquiring about your well-being after hearing of the mission with Blackwatch. You had been just short of disgraceful, unable to do a thing when it came down to it. On top of that, the tinnitus persisted as a constant reminder of your short-comings. 

Gabriel Reyes himself comes down to the medical bay to thank you for your service. You notice the wary looks that your co-workers give the man, and think that he must notice it too by the way he never quite has his back fully to the room. 

“It’s not a problem, sir. I was just…lacking.” 

“No, you did a fine job in supporting my men. I just hoped it didn’t traumatize you too much.” The unspoken ‘Because Angela would kill me’ hangs in the air. 

You sigh. “The truth is, I’ve done things like this before. I just—wasn’t as mentally prepared this time. But next time!” You meet his eyes boldly. “Next time, I’ll be better and show that McJesse guy.”

Gabriel raises an eyebrow at you in interest. “Next time?”

* * *

When Reyes announces another team mission several weeks later, he did not expect to see you again, healthier and brighter than the last time— _clammy and unresponsive_. You even have a bagel in your mouth. Ballsy, especially in front of Reyes who does not tolerate any sort of disrespect. 

The luck of the draw, he assumes. He tells himself that no one voluntarily joins Blackwatch if they have better choices (not saying that Blackwatch is a bad choice, per se—there were worst ways to go about life, and Reyes, despite his bravado, is a pretty decent boss). But with all the dangers involved, you’d have to have a few screws loose to actually _want_ to join up with them.

“Haven’t you learned your lesson yet?” he asks dryly when you’re introduced again. 

You lift an eyebrow at him and grin from behind the bagel. He just wants to snatch the stupid thing out of your mouth. Don’t you know breakfast time is over? Gabriel fixes him with a glare before he goes on with the mission plan. 

This time, it goes much better. (The fiasco last time led to some pretty nasty words to be exchanged between Commander Reyes and Strike Commander Morrison who had to clean up the mess that was made as a result of the botched mission.) It’s a four-man mission to disable the last of some lingering omnic forces and possibly get information out of them.

This time, you stick right by them, keeping silent and only acting when necessary. Jesse didn’t want to admit it, but you seemed to be keeping up pretty well with them. It is an improved look from last time. You seemed calmer, more focused. You were able to heal them and patch up their wounds on the go, timing it properly to minimize any delays during the mission. Maybe it’s because this was a smaller scale mission or maybe it’s because it’s not your first anymore, but the way you handle yourself this time around is worthy of acknowledgement. 

Not that he gives it. 

But the other members heap it on you like rain in a monsoon. 

You laugh easily as you administer aid to them during transport, brushing it off like it’s not an amazing feat that you’re able to keep up in a Blackwatch mission. The laughter suits you. It’s much better than the stunned silence from the first mission. You looked dead, even. His stomach twists minutely at the thought. No, you were alive and fine. He doesn’t need to worry about you. Babysitting you isn’t his job. 

“Hey, McJesse, your turn.” 

“It’s McCree,” he snaps all too quickly. He sees you grin at him, and pretends that it’s not a good look for you. 

“Where does it hurt?” 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, doc.” 

You kneel in front of him. He can smell something pleasant from you, and turns his head, refusing to think on it. 

“I saw—when you jumped out in front of me. You got hit, right?” He had run up to unload all his bullets into one particular omnic that had spotted you weaving through the pillars of the building. Before he was able to finish doing so, it had gotten a hit in on his ribs. He was lucky to have deflected most of it with his elbow, but it still hurt. 

“Still don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

You press a hand into his ribs and his hisses, smacking your hand instinctively. No, he doesn’t feel guilty when you recoil in pain or when his teammate gives him looks that could kill. It’s your fault for being nosy. You glare at him, holding out your hand. 

“Arm.” 

He gives it. Not because he feels bad or anything, but just to get you off his back. He feels a prick of a needle and sees you inject him with healing serum. He can feel it coursing through his veins, soothing the pain that had overtaken his torso and arm. 

“Better?” you ask. 

He grunts noncommittally and pulls down his hat so you don’t have to see just how well you’ve done. “’s fine.”

He doesn’t miss the way you smile, however, and has to fight to suppress a smile of his own.

“Okay, men. This is another group mission. We’ll be having medical assistance with us on this one, so everyone better behave.” 

Jesse lifts his head from his hand quickly and turns to the door when it slides open to reveal a white lab coat, but he quickly puts his head back on his palm when he realizes it’s not you. It’s some shmuck who looks around the room nervously like they got thrown into the lion’s den rather than a meeting room. The rest of the briefing goes on, and McCree doesn’t bother to know this person’s name. 

When Gabriel dismissed them, he approaches Jesse with a strange look of amusement and…pity? “What do you want, boss?”

“Disappointed with the line-up?”

“Why should I be?”

Reyes shrugs, a knowing smirk growing on his face. “No particular reason.” Irritation burns in his chest. Reyes doesn’t know anything, and whatever he’s assuming, he’s _wrong_. 

Jesse curses when he returns to base, slamming on the control pads of each door as he passes through them and shoves everyone out of his way (not that they don’t jump to the other side of the hall when they see him already). He stands by _everything_ he said about medics. They don’t belong on the battlefield. 

The mission was going as expected, but it was difficult for all the wrong reasons. 

The medic Gabriel assigned to this mission has no idea what he’s doing, looking around and making a giant target of themselves. He wished you were there instead. He nearly got shot through his head when he pauses, realizing what he had just thought.

He had to rush at the medic, barrel-rolling him out of danger and knocking himself out in his haste. (If anyone asks, it’s not because he saw your image overlap with this medic’s for a second. It’s just him fulfilling Gabriel’s order of having everyone return alive. That’s all.)

He woke up with a pounding headache and with no idea of where he is (it wouldn’t have been the first time). The yelling from the communicator in his ear reminding him that he was in the middle of a battlefield and he needed to haul ass. The damn medic got himself knocked out, too, making this mission even worse. 

Long story short, it was the worst mission ever, and he never wants another medic on the filed with them ever again unless it’s Angela. 

_Or you_. 

He shoves that traitorous thought out of his head as he ambles down the halls, determined to give his boss some lip about his choice of medical accompaniment.

"I don’t know how you do it.”

“Do what?”

“Work with those Blackwatch guys! I almost died and you’re planning on going on _another_ mission with them?”

Jesse presses himself against the wall when he hears your voice, and wonders what the hell he’s doing. Half an hour ago, he heard that you were going to be joining them on another mission. He’s supposed to be telling you to stay away from Blackwatch and that it had no place for people like you, that Blackwatch has no need for medics (and not because he doesn’t want to see that look you had when you went on your first mission with them). Instead, he’s hiding like a coward, waiting for you to speak again.

“Yeah, what’s the problem with that?”

Your companion splutters. “‘What’s the pro—’, are you insane? Those guys have no sense of teamwork! They just run off wherever they like and leave you to die! I got shot at! _Shot._ _At._ Overwatch agents would never let that happen to me.”

Jesse almost steps out of the shadows to give this fool—it’s the quack from the last team mission several weeks ago, he realizes with no small amount of annoyance—a piece of his mind.

“'course not.” Your mouth is stuffed with something again. Why could he imagine a bagel hanging out of your mouth so clearly? "Blackwatch isn’t used to having support. They’re lone wolves, the lot of them. You just have to keep up with them and work around them.”

He stops, holds his breath and slinks back into the shadows. Did you just defend them? Blackwatch? Don’t you know what that could do to you and your career? 

The other medic huffs. “I shouldn’t have to keep up with them. They’re the ones getting recklessly injured. They deserve half the injuries they get.”

"Even if they do it to themselves, it doesn’t mean I’m not going to help them.”

“You could die if you keep getting involved! Your life as a doctor is way more valuable than those of criminals lik—” The rest of the sentence drops into a muffled yell. Alarmed and curious, McCree dares stick his head out to see what stopped the guy from speaking the final nails on the proverbial coffin. What he didn’t expect to see is the medic held by the collar and a bagel forcibly pressed into his mouth like a gag. You looked downright annoyed. The urge to whistle made its way onto his tongue.

“Listen here, you judgmental wuss. At the end of the day, an injured person is still a patient. I don’t care if they’re Blackwatch or Overwatch. They risk their lives to help keep the peace, so the least we can do is offer them recognition and do our jobs. Forget _faction_. Forget _rank_. We are _doctors_ and it’s our duty to help people. Don’t you forget _that_.”

You loosen your grip, and the other man scramble fearfully out of the room, your breakfast still in his mouth. With a huff, you sit back down, immediately pulling out your phone to type out a message to someone that McCree can’t see. 

McCree tugs the brim of his dark hat over his eyes, and slides a hand along his burning face. His heart is racing, for what reason, he’s not very sure. It’s been a long time since he’s heard anyone defend Blackwatch so vehemently. You must know the way everyone looks at them, scorns them, and even so, you’re willing to speak well of them and go on missions together. He heaves a shaky sigh and slides to the floor. 

Any objections he’s had against you sits lifelessly in the back of his mind, crushed by your determination and kind words. He needs a moment to process this. Or a drink. 


	49. My Heart Beats for You (McCree/Reader) (Death-fic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Death fic, angst.
> 
> Companion fic to "Accompaniment"

Today, McCree does not rise with the sun like he normally does. He gets up well after and makes his way into the mess hall even though he knows breakfast service is over. It’d be good to pick up a nice cup of brew regardless.

“Oh, there you are, you sleepyhead!” Lena waves him over enthusiastically when he enters. A weary smile crosses his lips as he greets her.

“Mornin’, Lena.”

“Got you something! Catch!”

His hand shoots out reflexively to catch a napkin-wrapped something. He looks at and gingerly begins to unwrap it.

“Saved you a bagel. I know you like ‘em!” she says with a cheery wink.

A stirring in his chest puts the world at an angle beneath his feet, threatening to throw him out of this reality and into another one—one where he is the one giving away a bagel and the one receiving is someone more precious.

Instead, he clenches his fingers around it, willing the breakfast food to ground him. He gives Lena a terse smile, well-practiced and hopefully more natural than he feels.

“Mighty kind of you to think of me. I’ll be sure to savor it.”

"Don’t savor for too long.” She laughs. “We’ve got a briefing later! Don’t be late!”

She leaves with a salute and a streak of light, leaving McCree alone. The bagel rests gingerly in his hand as he stares at it, forlorn before he sinks his teeth into the treat and leaves it hanging out of his mouth, and orders himself a cup of very, very strong roast to brave the rest of the day.

The briefing goes as expected, but the stifling heat makes the room nearly unbearable.

The HVAC was down for an indeterminate amount of time, and that has the hot-blooded people eager for a distraction. (Jesse himself is a desert man, long accustomed to the heat and humidity that would debilitate any other person, barring the Amaris, of course, so this doesn’t bother him in the least.)

“McCree, you should take that armor off sometime.” Mei looks positively worse for wear, having shed most of her usual layers. “Doesn’t it make you sweat?”

“Gotta protect my heart from the elements, it’s delicate, y'know?”

Everyone laughs, and he laughs with them, letting the joke fall onto its head as people make various kind-natured jabs at his character, but he carefully rests his hand over the center of his covered chest.

If only they knew the truth of his words.

While Hanzo bares his chest like he wants it to be torn to pieces, McCree guards his with a ferocity unmatched for reasons that only the veterans knew.

The pitying gaze that the older members of Overwatch give him is annoying. Lena was too new at the time, she doesn’t know the details, but people like Ana, Reinhardt, Torbjörn, and worst of all, Angela, know all too well that the armor he wears is not out of some misguided habit to follow the Blackwatch ways or an attempt to imitate his old Commander like the newer agents believe.

The armor has its practical uses, keeps him alive on the battlefield where one bullet in the wrong place can end his day a bit sooner than he would like, but that’s only partially the truth.

The meeting is adjourned and he spends the rest of the day running small errands and training, working up a little sweat that everyone else seems to do too easily on this weather. Fully drenched and muscles worn from a good sparring session, he returns to his room and trudges into the private bathroom.

Jesse makes sure to hang his signature hat on the door before he strips away his layers, dropping them carelessly to the floor. The last thing to come off is his armor and shirt, and Jesse stares at his barren self in the bathroom mirror.

The sight of the long, vertical scar resting dead center on his torso amidst a forest of hair and scattered scars like a river that’s carved its way through him never fails to drag up a sense of melancholy that not even his missing arm could ever elicit.

It’s a solemn reminder of the day he cheated death, and it will soon want its dues.

He touches his fingertips to the old wound reverently and bows his head, a quiet prayer and thanks on his dry lips.

It was a mission gone wrong—too much bravado on his part to accept your help on a solo mission, too little heed to the nuances of the situation, a crappy promise that he would return to you in one piece, and where did any of that lead him?

Shot in the heart, short an arm, and dying far too quickly.

He has no memories of the events after the world goes an eerie whitish-green then black. All he knows is his chase after several people of interest and the familiar beginnings of a shootout and terrible odds.

Jesse was told later—so much later that the little memories of the event that he did have were already nothing more than a whisper in his mind made up of his imagination from stories and rumors—exactly what happened.

You had followed him on an accompanying transport. Found him. Called for the back-up crew that had accompanied you. Saved him from dying when he was seconds away from death at the risk of your own life.

Your people weren’t fast enough, and there were too many enemies. Your priority was made too clear when reinforcements found you lying on top of him, shielding him with your own body in desperation.

Apparently, no one could tear the staff from your hands as it continued to heal him.

He grits his teeth as the thoughts makes the crack in his chest ache.

What beats in his chest is not his heart. That useless thing was torn out and cast away the instant he hit the operating table—the injuries were too severe to wait for a synthetic heart, and you were, for all intents and purposes, _available_.

They did what they had to.

And he never got the chance to say anything about his feelings to you. Just a crappy pick-up line that was so bad, you had slapped yourself in the face and he had wiped it from his memory before he even boarded his transport.

What he wouldn’t give to remember what he said to you that day if only to be able to reply the scene of your last meeting in his memory. What he wouldn’t give just to hear you say his name wrong— “ _McJesse._ ” What he wouldn’t do to take back his foolishness just so at least you may be here in his place, eating bagels still and helping people in ways he could never.

Days and weeks passed since he had learnt the truth, forced to face the fact that in the first time since Blackwatch’s founding, a medic had died accompanying a Blackwatch member (even if the original accompaniment was unsanctioned). He had broken his promise to Gabriel, to the team, to you. But he didn’t very much care about a shitty promise made by a leader trying to appease cowards who turned their noses at those who donned the mark of a skull and sword.

He never really cared very much for bagels either, but he ate one every day ever since as though it would keep that little part of you in him alive despite the irony of the situation.

The only living thing that exists anymore is your heart, and he would do anything to protect it, and in essence, protect himself. Jesse smiles bitterly, spreading his hand over his chest, feeling the fragile yet insistent beat. Even now, you’re still doing your damn job, casually concerned about him. That’s probably what he liked so much about you.

Jesse had always wanted your heart, but never like this.


	50. April Fools (Implied McCree/Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion fic to "My Heart Beats for You"

Soldiers died all the time. Omnics were decommissioned and scrapped all the time. The cycle of life and an all too early death were practically facts of life for Overwatch.

The era of Overwatch’s rise and fall was full of turmoil, uncertainty, and hope. But for Blackwatch, there was only conspiracy, death, and a longing for something that none of its members could ever put a name to.

For McCree in particular, he knew death too well, knew longing too well; he feels it rise to the surface of his chest every time he lays eyes on a stupid bagel—at least he’s long stopped associating long white coats with you. It makes getting patched up by medical staff a little easier if not bittersweet. Bagels, though—dry and tasteless things—still make his heart (well, it’s not really his) ache like nothing else even long after he’s stuffed it in his mouth to appease the phantom pain and yearning.

Conspiracy entangled Blackwatch like a wet shroud, a trailing second skin. Even McCree, who prided himself on being in the know (and finding out even when he wasn’t), could not have been privy to every single secret operation at Blackwatch or even Overwatch. There were too many.

Ana Amari being alive, for one. Though that whole debacle was an outlier. She chose to remain anonymous, to not speak or make herself known to anyone. It’s not a conspiracy if no one else knew.

But Jack knew. Or rather, Solider: 76 knew. And Soldier’s existence itself may as well be a huge conspiracy. Even worse was the next bombshell that the two legends dropped on him.

Reyes was alive.

Technically, he’s dead. And now he’s known as Reaper.

The big three were fucking breathing and solid and if that isn’t conspiracy enough then McCree doesn’t know what to believe in this world anymore—certainly not Sombra for sure.

So, when he confronts Reaper (alone, no less), spitting fire and fury, demanding answers for the years abandoned from the masked man, McCree gets mocked, pistol-whipped with the back of Reaper’s shotgun, and a piece of information he never thought he wanted to know.

And for the first time in his life, he runs away from a fight, from Reaper who watches him go, and from the one with the answers to questions he has had for years.

Each breath burns his lungs, his legs pound, and blood rushes through him like it’s never done before—he feels alive. Fragments of words tumble out of his mouth, and he chokes on them as he tries to gulp in air through his quickly constricting throat. In his ear, Angela and Tracer tell him to slow down, to tell them his location, trying to make full sentence out of the gibberish he’s spewing. In the background, Fareeha is yelling about him running off on his own. But none of that matters now. His eyes sting, his heart is racing like never before.

There’s still a chance.

After all these years, there is still a _chance._

_—“Remember the medic who gave you a second chance at life, brat? Capsule #442-07B. Cryolife BioLab, Los Angeles office. Contract expires in two weeks.”—_


	51. Disguises (McCree/Reader)

It isn’t long after the initial recall that the walls of Watchpoint: Gibraltar begin to fill one by one with human presence.

It shouldn’t have been such a surprise when old faces reemerge. It was only a matter of time. When Winston calls for a briefing to introduce a former Blackwatch agent who will be spearheading a new mission to infiltrate a Talon-sponsored gala in New York under the guise of wealthy investors, he really should have known whom to expect.

An old lady everyone’s sworn they’ve never seen before stands beside an overly pleased Winston. The lady herself looks around the room through thick glasses with a confused scrunch to her face, making timid steps around her shaking cane. She looks like she ran out of a vintage thrift shop, covered in multiple layers and a giant tacky shawl that looks like it’s better used as a rug. 

Jesse’s stomach flops with something strange and familiar at the sight, and he really hopes that he didn’t just discover an unsavory desire for senile old ladies.

A quick glance around the room reveals people who look less than pleased, concerned even, to see someone so elderly in the room. 

“Everyone,” Winston announces proudly, “allow me to introduce to you our newest operative, former Blackwatch and master of disguise, Agent Anonymous.” 

Well, _damn._

Looks like he didn’t discover a hidden inner fetish, just a long-forgotten bundle of heartache and confusion. 

“What did you say?” you shout shrilly. Everyone in the room winces. “Ancient atoms? Well, of course they’re ancient! They’re in all of us, you know! Each of us is made from the cosmos! You know the Big Bang? They taught us that in school. _I_ taught it in school! Fourth grade! Licensed school bus driver, too. Best you’ll ever find, we went where no man could. Now you kids just go to museums and space parks and the like.” 

Zarya deadpans at Winston. “You must be joking.” 

“About?” 

“You are sure that you have right person?”

“She looks like she’s just a regular old grandma,” D.Va chimes in. “You’re sure this is the master of disguise?” Hana watches you continue your rant, oblivious to the fact that everyone else is staring. “Maybe the disguise is too good?”

Soldier: 76 casts a look at her, unreadable behind the mask, but definitely weary and scathing in nature. 

“Of course! I would never make that mistake.” Winston pauses, and peers at you cautiously. “You… _are_ Agent Anonymous. Aren’t you?” 

“I’m not a magenta moose!”

“Of course not, darlin’,” McCree says, cutting into your monologue. You were perfectly capable of causing mass confusion and chaos with one of your characters; Jesse knew that first-hand. “You’re a one-of-a-kind beauty, ma’am.” 

You squint at him, tilting your head owlishly. Behind the thick glasses, he could see a familiar glint in your eyes. Something in his chest shifts uncomfortably. “Why, Jesse J.M. McCree! Oh my goodness—is that really you, child? Come here so I can get a better look at you!” 

Winston sighs in relief. At least it’s clear now that you really were who he thought you were. 

McCree takes slow purposeful steps to avoid running up to hug you, knowing that he had a better chance with a cactus. You always kept everyone at arm’s length, fearful that your true identity may be inferred from a simple embrace. Instead, he pulls his hat down to his chest and bows dramatically, sweeping up one of your lacy hands, and presses a kiss to the knuckles. 

“At your service, ma’am.” 

The hand he holds turns and makes a halfhearted grab to pinch his face, and he barely jerks out of the way. 

“What sass! You’re just like my ex-husband!” 

“Thank you kindly, ma’am. Must mean somethin’ good if your mister was able to get a fine catch like you.”

“Oh, hush up!” 

You tap him on the hip with your cane, and he laughs—you both laugh, and he ignores the feeling of something buried deep inside him slowly unwinding.

Age, gender, weight, height, real name; he never got a grasp of any objective information that could give away your original identity. ‘Strictly classified’ was the term Reyes used whenever he’d ask, followed by ‘It’s none of your damn business’ whenever he’s caught trying to solicit more information.

His drive to know definitely had nothing to do with the fact that you were granted your own private room upon joining Blackwatch when he still had to sleep in a bunk, and it had nothing to do with the fact that you were treated different— _better_ —than the rest of them.

It was also frustrating beyond belief having to meet you for the first time every other week. It’s enough to make him think that he hated you, and he dreaded the first mission the two of you are sent on: interception of an arms trade by taking out the buyer and assuming their identities. The buyer was a young cocky son of an influential figure, and Jesse was elected to play the part, and you, his aide. 

You never broke character, but he did, more than enough times for the dealers to become suspicious. It took a dramatic chase scene through the winding streets and underbelly of Hong Kong that landed you both in some remote area, heaving and mildly fearful for your lives for him to say to you, “You’re all right.” 

And he meant it. 

You must know it, too, by the dumbstruck look on your face that’s entirely out of character for the person you don.

“Thanks,” you said, an abashed smile wrinkling the edges of your eyes. He thought this might be the closest to the real you he had ever seen, and found that he wouldn’t mind seeing more. 

After, he was sent on more missions with you, and with each one, he learned something new about the person behind the make-up and costume. 

He stopped trying to look into your files before long. He didn’t have to know the things that could be found on a piece of paper like the name you’ve picked for yourself that day or a picture of the face you decided to wear. What he did know was the way your eyes practically glowed when your character spoke of something you—the _real_ you—enjoyed; the deftness and gentle touch of your fingers as you applied latex and make-up to his face and transformed him into someone else for a mission; the small slaps of encouragement against your thighs right before you’re about to fall into character. 

Eventually, even without his Dead-Eye enhancement, he could pick you out of a crowd of strangers.

He didn’t know until after Overwatch disbanded just what any of that meant. 

After you make your introductions to the new Overwatch and had a chance to catch your breath and put down your stuff, you don a younger, more casual civilian persona, one that he swears he’s seen before, but not entirely sure in what context. 

“Hey there, _cowboy_.” 

McCree tips his hat at you, resisting a smile when his eye catches on the nostalgic name tag you have on your chest. ‘ _Anon’._ “Evenin’, Anon. How’re you settling in?”

“Good, good, everything’s pretty much the same as before,” you say as you take up a seat beside him. “Zarya, I think her name was, was very accommodating. Helped me with a lot of my luggage. And Hana? Got her to help with unpacking. She really likes the collection. Wanted to play with it sometime.”

McCree snorts. Figures she would. 

“There’s a lot of new faces here. Glad that you’re at least familiar.” He thinks you should speak for yourself. “Though…”

You reach a hand behind him and gently twirl your fingers around the ends of his tresses. An unreadable smile crosses your face, and he wonders if this was a part of your character, too, or if he’s actually seeing a piece of the real you. 

“You look ridiculous.” There is a warmth in your voice that grips him by the heart and _squeezes_. “Your hair’s a mess.” 

He holds a hand to his chest and feigns a pout. “Aw, c’mon. You’re hurtin’ my feelings here.”

You tug on his serape also. Your tone, teasing. “This poncho is ridiculous, too.” 

“It’s a serape. The same thing I’ve always wore.”

“It’s _red.”_

 _“_ And I look damn good in it _.”_

His heart skips a beat when you laugh and say, “Yes, yes, you do.” 

You slide a hand against his cheek. Against his better judgement, he indulges himself in the touch, pressing his beard into your palm like an affectionate cat. Screw it. If you can pretend, so can he. You rub your thumb against his cheekbone, giggling softly. 

“You know, I meant to comment on it before but…”

“Hm?”

“A BAMF buckle? Seriously? Where’d you even _get_ this?” 

“Hey, gotta call it like it is.” He does not resist an attempt to fluster you with a slight roll of his hips.

He gets a light smack to his hipbone—again—for his sass. But it’s a small price to pay to see the blush that dusts your face. (McCree does not realize the implications of this sight until much, much later.)

The days to the mission tick down.

McCree sees you wear a different person each day: a young woman who draws up a whole book of plans and contingencies for the mission out of anxiety for a mission that persona might not even go on; an administrator who forsakes food and sleep to organize and create the necessary documentation for the logistics of the gala (floor plans, maps, hotel reservations, background checks, everything was documented and prepared to the letter); a soldier who fiddles with the communication devices every once in a while as though waiting for something other than the voices of your targets you’re eavesdropping upon. 

It’s almost like old times. More than once he’s caught himself staring just a bit too long, laughing out loud when the others get flustered over each new character. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying the confusion the multiple facets cause—no wonder Gabriel never scolded you for occasionally forgetting to wear your name tag. It’s so much better to watch.

The rest of the week goes by like this, and the night of the mission comes quickly. 

You arrive in an unmarked car with McCree and everyone else already stationed around the perimeter should the night go down in flames. He gives your broader than usual shoulder a quick squeeze as you make you it out of the car. 

“Good luck, Anon. Give me a holler if you need anything.” 

“Mr. McCree, I do not require luck,” your new persona says, straightening his tie and extending a pristine gloved hand out to him. “I already have a BAMF on my side, after all.” 

Jesse’s mouth falls open. 

Well, _fuck._

There goes his self-assurance that he is _not_ in love with your characters, too. 


	52. Midnight Snack (McCree & Reader)

Jesse entered the cafeteria—the lights automatically flickered to life. He hissed, pulling the brim of his hat against his face.

“Athena, be a lil’ more energy friendly, will ya?”

“Understood, Agent McCree.”

The AI was kind enough to understand his intentions, leaving the lights closest to the service window on just enough so he could see where he was going.

“Thanks, ‘thena.”

It was nearing three in the morning; no one was around. He pulled up a spare bar-stool to the long window, and sat down like a patron waiting for his order to be taken—in a way, he was. If the darkness of the kitchen was any indication, you were probably still dead asleep. He leaned his arms against the counter, sighing, waiting for you to emerge from the darkness. Undoubtedly, Athena was already alerting you of your customer. It’s unfair to wake you up for something like his personal problems, but he couldn’t remain alone.

The nightmares that chased him to this place was still fresh in his mind—the yelling, the fear, the colors, so many colors yet all monochrome. The cold sun.

Hood in black. “ _Your pick. Death by your so-called_ _‘compadres’ or you work for us.”_

A lilting laugh. _“He’s talented, you know.”_ The sign of protection.

_“K.I.A. I can’t believe…damn it, why did you go alone?”_

_“Blackwatch is done for.”_

Red, red, _red._

The sound of hydraulics and beeps of a door opening drew him back to the present. The lights inside the kitchen blinked and flooded his vision, revealing the pristine counter-tops and equipment inside.

Right.

He was here at the Gibraltar Watchpoint. Safe. Without Reyes. Without Blackwatch. Without…

You walked out to the service window, still buttoning your chef’s uniform—professional as ever. It was too bad he couldn’t see your face; he was sure you didn’t bother cleaning up too well. It hadn’t been that long since he’s gotten here, after all.

“Agent McCree?”

You bumbled through his name like you’re still remembering how to speak—it’s as he thought, you were sleeping. He only felt the slightest bit guilty that he had to burden you with his troubles this way, but flashed you a grin you couldn’t see regardless. You’ve been a part of Overwatch long enough to expect hungry agents at any time of the day. This wasn’t unusual for you.

“Mornin’, Chef,” he managed as cheerfully as he could.

“It’s three, Agent McCree.”

“Still mornin’.”

“So it is. How may I help you, Agent McCree?”

If he stuck his head through the partition, he could see you and be treated to your ire. 

“Could a man get some love over here? Preferably in the form of a late-night drink?”

“Please use the terminals if you wish to order, Agent McCree.” Straight-laced answer.

“Alcohol ain’t on the list.” He would know, he’s checked. “Do you mind indulgin’ a fella in some whiskey?” Some company would be nice, too, but that’d just be a bonus.

You pressed your fingers together, resting your hands against the counter. He watched the muscles and tendons beneath your skin shift in thought. He wasn’t sure if you’d actually accommodate his request. The rations at the Watchpoint were carefully controlled—it wasn’t easy getting large amounts of food here especially when Overwatch was still an illegal organization.

Alcohol was even more tightly managed than the food, and for good reason. It was too easy for people like himself—broken and on the precipice of madness—to fall into the comfort that alcohol could bring. Even if he had hell to pay in the mornings after. It’d be worth the quiet those few hours would bring. 

The worst-case scenario was him returning to his nightmares empty-handed and entirely sober. He had some stashed away in his room, but he’d rather not return to the lace his nightmares haunted him strongest.

You tapped the counter decisively, a small sigh escaping. 

“Please wait one moment, Agent McCree.” 

He couldn’t help the small smile that wormed its way onto his face.

“Thank you kindly, Chef.” He tipped his hat even though he was sure you couldn’t see.

You said nothing more as you departed the window, leaving him to his momentary solitude.

This wasn’t a bar, but it felt pretty close. Well, it was a bit agoraphobic, if he had to be honest. The wide expanse of the cafeteria at his back was only offset by the reassuring weight of the serape swaddling him.

Wakefulness and weariness pulled at his mind from opposite ends. He could really use a smoke if only to tide over the slow creep of anxiety the silence left him in.

However, movement in the kitchen kept him alert. The sound of a clicking stove, then two, then a symphony of movement. Clinking glass against marble, dull chopping, running water that turned off just as quickly as it was turned on, then again, and again. What were you doing in there? Cooking a meal?

He waited.

One minute turned to two.

Then to three.

Four.

Five.

He was near losing the battle to sleep and the mire of nightmares that awaited him when you returned, a pretty glass with some sort of amber drink and lemon slices in it. A far-cry for any whiskey he ordered.

He eyed the drink carefully; the steam looked very comforting and smelled too sweet to be his order.

“What’s this, Chef?”

“Hot toddy,” you explained, already walking away. “Lemon; cloves; honey; water; whiskey.”

Jesse pulled a face. It figured that a simple request would yield something fancy.

He took a sip anyway. It wouldn’t do to waste your efforts. 

It was like a lemon tea with a kick—a molten dollop that dropped down his stomach and spread into his extremities. It was hardly what he was hoping for: the blinding sting of alcohol that would burn a hole into his subconsciousness and his cognitive ability, effectively sending him into a noiseless and colorless sleep. This was more of a cute drink for unwinding after a cold, winter day.

He exhaled.

There honestly was no need to ruin a nice bit of whiskey with all this other stuff. But he kept his mouth shut knowing that this was your brand of kindness.

It wasn’t all too bad after the fourth or fifth sip. It wasn’t going to quiet his nightmares, that’s for sure.

From inside the kitchen, you called, “Athena, radio, if you please. Smooth jazz.”

He smiled behind the lip of his glass. You were very accommodating when you had no customers. Wordlessly, the harmony of saxophones and piano filtered through the large cafeteria that suddenly didn’t feel so large anymore; the empty spaces filled with warm chords and echoed them back. He was never a fan of jazz like this, but he had to admit, it had its charm.

You returned shortly, and slid a small dish and a fork onto the counter. He stared at it.

A slice of bread pudding still bubbling slightly. 

“You’ve been holdin’ out on us,” he said incredulously. Something like this was a luxury by post-Overwatch standards. You rarely made anything that would compromise the limited supply of food. 

You huffed a dry laugh.

“Leftovers.”

“Well, much obliged, then.” Even though he wasn’t sure if you meant that this was created from leftovers or this slice itself was a leftover, it didn’t matter very much in the end.

The little fork looked ridiculous in his hand, but he devoured the treat anyway and chased it down with the hot toddy. It was warm and sweet and entirely inappropriate for a midnight (or after three) snack. Nonetheless, the combination of treat and drink blanketed the ghosts of his past and lingering fears, quieting them, and your watchful presence beyond the partition kept the loneliness at bay. 


	53. Civics (McCree & Reader)

You slam both hands on your desk. 

“Is HR so desperate for people that they’ll just hire anybody?” you hiss with a glare to match. 

McCree— _Professor_ Morricone, Civics 102 lecturer—just leans his shoulder into the doorframe and props a leg up on a toe, effectively cutting off your escape route. (Either your doors are small or he’s just that big.) That is unless you take other drastic measures. 

“What can I say?” he replies with a lazy smile, “Looks like I’m qualified for this position.” 

If he weren’t an international criminal with a mission to grab you and go, you might actually have an argument with him about how he _isn’t_ qualified and that he didn’t even manage to get his GED let alone the master’s degree required for this department. But he _is_ an international criminal out to get you, so you can only do one thing. 

You take a step back. 

“Now, now. I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” 

“No,” you agree, “you’d do something crazier.”

You turn tail and jump out the window. 


	54. Stitch (Soldier: 76/Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Minor gore

The first time he sees you embroider, he scolds you. Overwatch is a peacekeeping organization turned illegal vigilante group, not an afternoon embroidery club. If you wanted to do that, then you should go back to being a civilian.

The second time he catches you, you are with Ana, who upon noticing his presence, fixes him with a subtle glare over your head. At the silent threat of death by lack of medical attention in the next skirmish, he opts for a tactical retreat and decides your pastime is harmless and isn’t worth dying over.

However, the desire to say something keeps resurfacing whenever the two of you inexplicably cross the threshold from comrades to trusted friends to significant others.

To his credit, Soldier: 76 holds his tongue when he watches you work, sometimes alone, sometimes with Ana, sometimes even teaching some other people like Roadhog—he’s actually ridiculously good at it if the golden regal stitching on Mei’s New Year’s outfit is any indication. (Everyone is surprised, and Mei herself is moved to tears and marks the beginning of the unfortunate quarterly “Embroidery Competition” chronicles. Currently, Ana is crowned the as a four-time winner with her latest entry, a serape.)

Even though he doesn’t quite understand the art, he is always impressed when he sees the magnificent work that steadily comes alive underneath your fingers.

“Who’s this one for?”

“Genji. Thought I’d make him a matching one with Hana’s jacket,” you say as you knot off a stitch. “Pass me the supplies?”

He wordlessly hands you the box of threads—“Floss,” you had insisted—from which you pick out another color to continue the green scales of a dragon. The needle goes in and out of the fabric with the same type of precision he sees you deploy on the battlefield with your handgun.

He should end the pathetic tryst that you call a relationship, but a shadow of his conscience prevents him from doing so, craving the companionship and comfort you gave even when you have hoop and needle in hand, shoulders touching just enough to let him know that you’re there.

“…should I make one for you, too?” you ask absent-mindedly. He grunts.

“Don’t trouble yourself.” It isn’t your first time asking, and it isn’t his first time refusing either.

You hum, undeterred by his modesty.

“It’s no trouble,” you insist. “What about your pajamas? I could do a ‘76’ on it.”

He chuckles quietly at the idea. He didn’t particularly have pajamas and you know it, but it is endearing all the same.

“What about your towel? Maybe the inside of your jacket?” 

You keep providing suggestions even though you both know he won’t acquiesce to any of it, choosing to operate without any embellishments in life. Though, the desire to indulge you just for the sake of making you happy nearly trips over his desire to not place any more burdens on you, and it’s something he has to actively fight—there is no need to make you work so hard for his benefit.

He leans into you to at least show that he appreciates your consideration for him. You flash him a smile and nestle into his warmth, continuing your work only with the occasional comment or question about his thoughts. Far from the first time, he finds himself thinking that you should not be here. Your hands should be used for kinder things like blankets and soft stuffed animals, not vigilantism or hurting people.

It isn’t until the two of you are isolated and he’s out of biotic field emitters with a sizable gash in his stomach from which he tries to prevent his guts from spilling out of that he has second thoughts about your hobby. Without options or hesitation or any way to communicate with the healers of the group, you immediately set to work on closing the wound that his body struggles to cope with. When did you carry surgical needles and thread, anyway?

He watches with morbid fascination as the needle goes in and out of his skin with the same amount of mechanical precision and care that he sees you treat your fabrics. Each pull of the thread has him grunting and a hushed word of comfort from you, but only by sheer force of will does he not move lest he impede your work. In a haze of pain and delirium, he wondered if you’d also make him out as beautifully as one of your projects.

Only after the two of you are extracted back to safety does he gains a newfound appreciation for embroidery. Even Angela is surprised by the whole situation; the work was so magnificently done that the wound is expected to heal up with minimal trouble or scarring. There is even talk of integrating you into the surgical field, which you quickly reject.

The reason is made apparent when he notices that you haven’t touched your hoop in weeks, and trace his stomach with a shaky hand at night when you think he’s asleep. The realization makes his heart clench painfully. 

Overwatch is a vigilante group, but you’re all human.

The next time the two of you have some time, he approaches you with his jacket, asking for you to embroider something on the inside of his collar, if you’re up to it, of course. The look of disbelief on your face is priceless, but the smile and energy that return to your face makes it all worth it.

The jacket ends up with a small heart and a tiny ‘76’ inside it that he barely feels kissing his neck when he puts it on. The fact that it makes his heart flutter just a bit and his face turn red underneath the visor is a secret he plans to take to the grave. Though, judging by the new decorations on his towel and on his night pants tells him that you already know.

And he finds that he doesn’t mind.


	55. Apples (Soldier: 76 & Reader)

The selection of fruits in front of you is varied, and you mull over the possibilities presented to you. “Which ones do you want?”

“Anything is fine,” Soldier: 76 says distractedly, eyes trained on the door and any other potential entrances. He’s been jumpy and somewhat uncomfortable since you both came out on this grocery run. Well, it’s to be expected, he’s a wanted vigilante in several countries, after all. Even if he is wearing civilian clothing and switched out his mask for one of the cloth variety, he could still be recognized.

You return to your decision-making, eyeing your options carefully.

“What if we do a pink-lady and red delicious combination?”

Soldier’s head whips around so fast, you could swear you hear his neck crack.

“For apple pie?”

You blink at him. “Yes?”

He walks over, abandoning his watch point in the corner of the store. He takes one look at the selection and swipes several apples of varying colors, dropping them into your cart. He does it with such confidence and so quickly, you couldn’t help but wonder.

The man nods in satisfaction when he grabs the cart handles, wheeling it away. You follow. “So which did you pick?”

He grunts. “Several different types. Jonagored, Liberties…”

The two of you stop to grab something on the long shopping list off the shelf. “Variety is key. You need both tart and sweet. Best combination is to have soft apples mixed with crisp.”

You hum in acknowledgement, comparing the prices between two blocks of butter. “You’re pretty knowledgeable about this.”

Soldier: 76 doesn’t answer, he just continues walking down the aisle. You watch him, and smile to yourself. For all of his griping and awkwardness at the beginning of this trip, he seems to blend into the scenery pretty well.

You grab the butter of your choice and catch up to Soldier who’s made it a few aisles over.

“So, about the pie.” You drop the dairy product into the cart. “Should the apples be cubed or sliced?”

“Sliced,” he says quickly, sounding scandalized as though he can’t believe the other option. You raise an eyebrow. That’s the strongest opinion he’s had outside of combat that you’ve heard from the man’s mouth. 

“Don’t like them cubed?”

“They don’t make any damn sense. You put a fork in it and it all falls out. This is how you do apples pies: double crust with sliced combinations of crisp tarts and soft sweets in the middle, drizzle of caramel on top and a scoop of vanilla ice cream.”

Wow, that actually sounds pretty delicious. 

“Well, since you’re so sure,” you tease, “I guess you’ll have to show me how it’s done.”

“Is that a challenge?” The cart halts and he looks at you, presence suddenly imposing, his blue eyes are practically glowing.

You boldly meet his gaze, grinning. “You bet it is.”

When you both return to base, Soldier: 76 makes good on his promise. And by the end of the night, you have to concede during your second helping of pie. 

It is the best apple pie you’ve ever tasted.


	56. Past Encounters (Soldier: 76 & Reader)

The alleys of the night made for great hiding places for people like him. Small, cramped, plenty of darkness to cover himself with. They’ve become almost like a second home to him, no matter the city. He huffs to himself. It’s not like he can go back to being a regular civilian now. That is too far back in the past.

The old soldier could only continue forward on the broken path he’s created and decided to take. Though, it’s in one of these alleys that he stops.

In the middle of his path and a little more than halfway into the alley is a wheelchair—an older model from the looks of it, using wheels rather than the hover technology that’s nearly standard for these types of things nowadays—and someone sitting in it. The person hardly seems to start, instead, turns the chair toward him and backs up just a bit toward the single sliver of light that shone in the alley.

He knew he cut an intimidating image—glowing red visor in an alley with little more than the rifle slung across his broad back, smelling of munition and sweat. It’s best if no civilian got involved with him.

“Soldier: 76.”

Your hands go up when he points the gun, a lopsided smile on your face.

“I thought I recognized you. I saw you on the news and came to say hello.”

“You’re…”

“Do you recognize me? I was a part of the first batch of soldiers for the SEP. I’m—”

“Soldier: 7,” he murmurs, disbelieving but he still lowers his weapon just a touch. There’s no guarantee this is not a trap. Not yet, anyway.

There’s relief and a weariness to the smile that you wore. “Good to see you again, 76.”

There’s nothing more than warm mirth in your voice that sneaks into his chest and curls gently around his heart and lungs, leaving him very warm and just the slightest bit breathless. The SEP program didn’t allow people to be known by names, only numbers. The high mortality rate made it unnecessary and only added to a heartache that they shouldn’t have to bear—in reality, it was probably just to highlight the fact that they’re all just animals and experiments.

He only ever knew you as ‘7’, lucky, lucky seven, and the only one of your group to have survived with the added side-effect of severe muscle atrophy. The whole program knew you, maybe even pitied you. You’d probably never be able to lift anything or walk again, but at the very least, you didn’t have to see the war that they—himself and Gabe—did.

He strides forward and kneels down.

“Oh, don’t do that. Your pants—”

“What are you doing here?”

“—they’ll get…oh.”

A sigh escapes you, turning your eyes on him. They’re worn, too, like your smile. A small urge to close your eyes for you runs through him before it’s chased away by disgust. What a terrible thought. “Like I said, I saw you on the news. Is it really so unusual to try to find a friend?”

“Friend,” he echoes slowly. Funny how foreign that sounded to him, doubly so considering the line of thought he just came from.

You tilt your head and ask, “Aren’t we friends?”

Soldier: 76 doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have one, or at least, not one that he would consider giving. You must take his silence as an answer because you give a breathy chuckle. It sounds a little sad and a little unforgiving, and the sound crushes a part of him he didn’t know still existed.

“Well, forget that. At least I know you and 24 were friends.”

His head comes up quick.

“You and 24 were always close.” He stiffens as you laugh, waving a hand limply. “I guess that’s expected, seeing how you both came out of it in one piece.”

As though sensing his discomfort on the subject (and misunderstanding the source), “Oh, I’m not complaining. I’m pretty lucky. I got to keep my life, after all.” Then, quietly, “Sorry for bringing you down.”

“You did no such thing.” He places a hand on your knee. It doesn’t move, doesn’t jolt like he expected it to. There is no hard muscle. It’s just…soft.

He studies the faded flowers that bloom across the blanket that covered your legs in a minor attempt to distract himself from the implications. “What are you doing here? It’s dangerous at night.”

You pat the top of his hand, feather light. “Like I said, I came to see you. I was worried when I saw you on the news.” You take a rattling breath. “And I recognized where you were, so I went looking.”

“You didn’t have to do that. It’s—”

Unnecessary; unneeded; undeserved.

“We were experiments-in-arms, weren’t we?” There’s that sad and weary smile again, one that is a little deeper than the one that he remembers from his time at the facilities. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. Do you have a place to stay?”

“I—” Soldier: 76 pauses for a moment, running through his options, very aware this could still be a trap. When he looks at you, all he can see is the ghost of a past that was not yet tainted by the politics and the rivalries within—but he couldn’t know that. He didn’t know what life you lived after being released from the SEP.

“I don’t live far from here. It’s secure and has a good view,” you offer, and Soldier: 76 can’t help but think just how sincere that sounds.

He says, “Thank you,” and gets up onto his feet. “But I can’t. Civilians shouldn’t get involved with me. Forget everything that’s happened here. For your own good.”

Somehow, you don’t seem surprised. Instead, you gaze upon him like he’s some distant thing. He may as well be. Your worlds have converged at a point and have now parted like so many other things in life. He cannot deny it’s good to see you again, if unexpected, but he cannot risk dragging another person into his recklessness.

“I see.”

Those simple words close on him, cleaving a definite line between where he stood and you sat. Slowly, you turn your wheelchair away, the squeaking speaking words that probably have gone unsaid.

“Take care of yourself. And Soldier: 24, too.”

Long after you’ve gone, he’s left wondering again what exactly you’ve come for. To have tracked him down so far and done nothing, not even argue, is strange and sets off all sorts of alarms in his head. But this exchange just leaves him exhausted and limbs weary.

In the end, he makes his way out of this alley and into another, slumping against the walls, hidden by shadows, and thinks of your words and wonders what you know about Gabe and if you had met him, too. Soldier: 76 sighs, heavy, drained, and forces himself to get up and keep moving.

There is no rest for the weary. He has work to do.


	57. Two Sugars (Soldier: 76 & Reader)

“It’s two sugars, right?”

Soldier: 76 starts. How did…?

You look at him expectantly, his mug of coffee in your hand and your own in the other. He stares at that cup—his cup, a joke mug gotten for him by Tracer, the rascal, that read “World’s Okayest Dad”—that looks so foreign yet comfortable there in your grip.

Embarrassingly enough, it conjures forth a longing for a domesticity that he’s long thought he abandoned, stripped himself of, and stomped dead and left with the man who once called himself ‘Strike Commander Morrison’ or even the man who called himself ‘Jack Morrison’.

“76?” you called again, “two sugars?”

“Yeah. Two sugars.”

He watches as you turn away to fix his drink, and sighs slow and heavy, hoping that with this escaping breath goes the last of his foolish dream.


	58. Call Me (Soldier: 76 & Reader)

“Call me when you get home.”

Soldier: 76 gives you a look that you’re sure is probably incredulous, it’s hard to tell with the visor in place.

“I’m not some punk teenager,” he says, slamming your truck door so hard that it rattles your vehicle. You can’t be sure if that’s an accident or if it’s because of your comment.

“Either way, I get worried,” you shout as the silver-haired man leaves toward the path to the Watchpoint that you swore was abandoned. “Give me a ring when you arrive, okay? I’d hate to see you get picked up by cops while I’m here.”

He gives you a wave without looking back, and you huff. You lean your arms against your steering wheel, watching in silence as the man carrying the weight of the ‘76’ on his back walk down the beaten path that once led to something akin to glory but is now just a reminder of what humanity once sought to achieve. He soon is out of sight, but you remain in your truck.

It only takes several minutes, but you receive a text rather than a call.

‘Back,’ it reads.

You smile to yourself and start up your truck again. Well, even if the Watchpoint is rundown, at least you can rest easy tonight knowing that the organization’s head has returned to its rightful place.


	59. Mermaid (Soldier: 76 & Reader)

“Do you like having legs, soldier-man?” 

Your fingers knead Soldier’s twitching thigh muscles with more force than he would have imagined you’d be able to muster, and clenches his teeth together, biting back a groan—he can’t even answer. It’s like a massage from a strongman he never asked for. He’s glad for the rocks that support him, otherwise he’d be face first in the water.

God, how did he even get himself into these situations?

You don’t seem perturbed by his unresponsiveness, snaking your hands higher and higher up his legs. He ignores the way your hands—webbed hands—dampen his pants. He supposes he’ll have to run around a bit longer than usual to dry them out before he returns. _If_ he can still run after this. Your grip strength could probably give Zarya a run for her money. 

“Is this fun for you?” he manages to ask between grit teeth. Despite the cold water that envelops him from the knee down, his body feels like it’s on fire. You look up at him, blinking—he can still see your eyes beneath your eyelids, he realizes—and you smile. 

“Quite.”

Your hands roam back and forth; he jumps when you press your hands particularly hard against a sensitive area in the back of his thighs, tearing a ragged gasp from his throat. Soldier’s face turns scarlet beneath his mask, and he scrambles to get away to save himself whatever dignity he still had, glad that he has the mask and that you probably do not know how human bodies express embarrassment.

Before he can move away from your touch, however, you smooth your hands over that area, murmuring some strange noise like you’re trying to calm him down before you continue your exploration of the limbs that you don’t have. This time, you are gentler, rubbing small circles into his muscles which relax underneath your touch. 

Did you do this often? To anyone else? You’ve mentioned that you had been in contact with humans before, but to what extent? Was he the first to be this close? 

Soldier lets out a startled yelp, smacking your hands away when they wander a little too far up, and this time, he really does jump up from the water onto the bed of rocks behind him. His heart is racing—his goods were _this_ close to being man(mermaid?)-handled.

“What’s wrong?” you ask innocently, nonplussed by his reaction. He can see your tail—sleek and elegant—swishing back and forth slowly, and he’s reminded of a predator in wait. 

He doesn’t even know how to begin to answer that question.


	60. Heroes (Soldier: 76 & Reader)

“Tell me,” Solider rasps, voice pleading and weary with the weight of a lifetime’s burden, “what does it mean to be a hero?”

You don’t blink, don’t breathe, don’t say anything. There is nothingness in your mind, not even the faintest attempt to conjure up an answer to soothe the him or quiet the demons that would force him to ask such a question.

After a while, Soldier: 76 snorts and shakes his head, a bitter laugh resounds through his mask. “So you don’t know either, huh?”

Your eyes close and you sink into your chair as though Soldier’s surrender of the question relieves you of strings that held you up.

“I’ve been searching for an answer all this time,” he admits quietly. “Some people say that you have to rescue people, some people say you have to always be brave even when you’re afraid. That heroes are people who give up their lives for their countries or beliefs. You know what I think?”

You incline your head.

“I think heroes are a load of shit.”


	61. Chaste (Jack Morrison/Reader)

“It’s superficial,” Jack says nonchalantly like he always does. “I’ll heal up on my own.”

But he doesn’t protest when you gingerly take his hand, the knuckles already showing signs of healing—greens and yellows where there should be botchy blacks and blues. His hand is unbearably warm, and his fingers curls just so around your fingers, the size difference between you both is more apparent than ever. You massage his hand gently, rubbing each joint, muscle, and tendon, the skin blushes underneath your ministrations.

A tint of red covers the tips of his ears when you press your lips against each knuckle, but he grins at you, pleased and positively pink. “You’re lovely, you know that?”


	62. Flora (Jack Morrison & Reader)

The shop is thick with the scent of soil. It brings him back to the days when the sun beat upon his back, running barefoot through wild grass that comes up to his waist, to the days of screaming and chasing after the roosting chickens who cluck in offense and try to escape his games. He is back to his mother’s modest garden, separate from the farm. Her voice, filled with wisdom of various flowers and the weather, grabs a hold of his ears. 

“Welcome back, Jack.” 

Your voice pulls him back to the present. He blinks, somewhat self-conscious now that he realizes he has just been standing there, blocking the doorway without a word, lost in his boyish memories. He steps to the side. 

“Good to see you again,” he says, almost timidly as though a louder voice would scare you off. You smile, and he unconsciously returns the gesture. 

In here, he can leave his responsibilities and troubles at the door. He doesn’t have to be the prestigious Strike Commander, he only needs to be Jack Morrison, a simple man in a simply flower shop. 

“Likewise,” you say, picking up a medium sized pot with some sort of fern. He notices a sunflower weaved into your hair today, and his smile grows fond–every time he’s been here, you’ve always had some sort of flora on your person. Last time it was a rose, the time before that was a sprig of astilbe. “What can I help you with today?” 

“I’m…” Words abandon him, the sweet aroma of the various flowers, not over-powering but ever present, sink into his senses, robbing him of his finer oratory skills. Or maybe it’s because of the way you look at him, like he’s a _person_ who deserves your attention and care—not a trophy or some authority to cower beneath or challenge, and that makes him feel infinitely more comfortable and languid.

“I’m looking for flowers again,” he answers lamely.

It just makes you laugh, the sound dances along the edges of his weary mind, easing him, and he swears, if he looks around, he can see the flowers shine in response. Or maybe he’s just finally losing it.

“Well, you’re in the right place.” Positively jovial, you set the fern inside a large walk-in where he can see the windows are frosted with condensation. “Is there anything you had in mind?”

He begins to mill around the shop, looking aimlessly at the selection of flowers and herbs you have stacked on tables and shelves (and even the floor). “I’m not sure.”

It’s the same dance he’s done the few times he’s been in here. But he knows you’ll always come out with something for him at the end of his visit. You always do.

You hum thoughtfully, coming around the counter and looking at your wares.

“Is there a special occasion coming up?” 

There were no birthdays that he can remember coming up—either too far or having already passed. No holidays either. He shakes his head forlornly. “Not that I can recall.”

“In that case, do you mind if I chose something?” 

He starts, surprised by your initiative. “No, not at all.”

You beam, and his heart reacts almost immediately, racing to send blood to his face. He’s lucky that you’ve already turned around to gather what you had in mind for him, otherwise he may have a hard time explaining why he’s red in a climate controlled room.

While you work, he takes his time to look around some more. The varying colors call out to him, full and lush. It must be your love that makes these flowers grow so brilliantly with a soft ethereal look about them. He chances upon a small stand with pre-made bouquets on sale, likely crafted from some spare flowers and stems.

He’s received more bouquets in his life than he can remember, each one of them going to Ana or Angela or someone in passing. He just doesn’t know what to do with those gestures of appreciation, but thinks he wouldn't mind buying one from you. It’d almost be like getting one from you directly.

The intruding thought blind-sights him, and catches him so off-guard, he doesn’t notice you stand beside him and drop something atop his head. Something soft, and almost weightless lays there, shaking him out of his thoughts.

“What…?” He reaches up, but you stop him, holding his hands still–he tries not to think of just how nice your hands feel in his. Instead, you lead him to a mirror that lines the wall. He stares curiously at the imagery.

You standing close, and holding his hands to keep him from removing the flower crown that decorates his head–a mix of delicate flowers and deep green succulents and the main piece, a sunflower, similar to the one you wear in your hair. The petals settle into his hair like seeds saplings.

“You look great,” you say to the mirror with a smile that warms him like the rays of the sun. Ah, this must be how your plants feel. 

He can hardly find the strength to agree, still fixated on the view. Himself in civilian clothes, amidst a forest of flowers and plants, and yourself in an apron and matching flowers. Almost like a couple.

Jack’s heart swells, and he closes his eyes, breathing the floral air deeply, hoping to burn this tender image in his memory.

“I’ll take it.”


	63. To the Grave (Jack Morrison & Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Morally dubious actions

The shadow of a person falls over the headstone at the top of the hill that reads:

> ‘Here lies Jack Morrison
> 
> Commander
> 
> Overwatch’

Soldier: 76 stares down upon it, taking a moment to read the inscription before closing his eyes and steeling his nerves. 

Quietly, he kneels in front of it, hands together in silent prayer. He could recount the events unfolding as though it were yesterday. The sins of what he asked you to do weighs in his chest like an old stone—heavy, and damn near permanent. 

He had told everyone he needed to go down to the morgue to identify a body–he could tell that Angela didn’t believe him, but she had no proof, no choice, not when she’s needed by so many people all at once. If Gabriel were here, he’d be the first to call him out on his bullshit. A commander does not need to do things like that, but he hasn’t had a good look at him in weeks. And Ana? Well, hopefully, she’s in a better place now.

Everything’s been going to hell in a hand basket, and he’d be happy if he were the only one to get caught up in it. Soon, the secrecy can be over, and soon, justice will be served. 

He hoped. 

The trip to the morgue was a short one. It was built nearby for convenience sake, and the one at the on-site hospital was only meant for temporary storage. 

The receptionist was quick to get you when he came in, and you were quick to respond, greeting him with a warm, jovial smile that didn’t quite seem to reach your eyes. 

“Good evening, Mr. Morrison, we’ve been expecting you. Would you like some tea or coffee before we begin?”

Professional, but still personable. He doesn’t know whether he’s grateful that you’re this way or very tired of it. 

He shook his head and held up a hand. “No need, Director. I just came to do what I have to do.”

You merely nodded before you began to lead him through the little facility. He’s been here many times before, having to pay respects to some unfortunate young soul that was snatched up by death too early, to console families who blamed him for the loss of their child, their spouse, their beloved. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to stem the vivid memories that accompanied these drab walls like a poltergeist.

He was never going to sleep well at night and he’s long resigned himself to such a reality. 

But you, you have always overseen these ceremonies and duties with steadfast professionalism: cremations, embalming, burials, even the social interaction parts that Jack would’ve never guessed would be necessary for a job like this. He wondered sometimes if the ghosts of those bodies you handled ever haunt your dreams. He couldn’t imagine the horror. 

You glanced back at him as though you sensed his unease, but to his infinite relief, you said nothing and continued to guide him down into the basement. It grew noticeably colder, even with his coat on. 

You both entered through a door that required your biometrics and a few keys. The room looked like a smaller version of an operating room with square, metal doors that lined the entirety of the walls. He could take a gander at what lay inside them. 

The door swung shut behind you both, the echo of it cementing a feeling of absoluteness. You were both held in here, surrounded by corpses in an unsettling room that serves as a stop for a body’s journey to their final resting place. It was sobering and made the hair on his neck stand on end. 

“Rest assured, Mr. Morrison. You are safe here,” you said gently, smiling at him again. He doesn’t know how reassuring such words were when the two of you were literally surrounded by—well, he supposed there couldn’t be much danger from the dead. 

You pointed at each door in a specific order, counting mentally before you came to the door you required.

“I believe this person will suffice for your purposes.” 

You opened the door—he could tell it was heavy, but you didn’t betray any sign of a struggle—and pulled out the contents. A cadaver covered in a modest white sheet. There was no stench of death or blood. The contrast of his memories and the imagery before him was jarring. He clenched his jaw tight, a feeling of repulsion rushing through him—not because of the body, but what he was going to do to it.

Either out of consideration him or for the body, you did not pull the sheet back for him to see. Jack was very used to death, of course, it was practically part of the job description, but it didn’t mean that he liked it or wanted to be near it any more than necessary.

“He is very similar in build to you—came in just last week,” you said matter-of-factly. “We’ve been trying to get family to identify the body, but no one has stepped forward.” 

“This is—” If he didn’t burn in hell for what he had to do to protect Overwatch, he’d surely burn for this. “—I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely, “for forcing you to compromise your morals.” 

You looked at him with a look he could almost remember his parents giving him when he left Indiana for the first time—resigned yet resolute—and placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“Mr. Morrison. You came to me because you trusted me. I wish to repay that kindness.” 

Jack was keen enough to notice that you did not deny or affirm his claim. But if you weren’t going to mention it, neither would he. It was hard enough as it already were. After all, it was more than just his life that hung in the balance. Yours, your staff’s, all of Overwatch would crumble and be crushed if he didn’t do this. Mentally, he thanked you profusely for the blasphemy you were going to commit at his command. Outwardly, he balled up his fists, willing to keep his feelings of turmoil at bay. 

The attack at the Swiss Headquarters was to take place in a couple of days. He already knows that that’s where his enemies plan to bury him along with everyone else. He just had to make sure that everyone made it out safely and that ‘he’ was the only casualty, hence the preparation of this poor soul by your hand in absolute secrecy. 

Without your cooperation, he wouldn’t have a chance at pulling this off. 

He entrusted you with this knowledge—knowledge that he couldn’t even share with Ana while she was still alive or Gabriel. It hurt so much. It hurt when they accused him of forgetting Overwatch’s purpose, of being a puppet, of understanding nothing when that’s the furthest thing possible from the truth. By making the world believe he was dead, maybe the blame would die with him, and then he’d be able to move freely to find the bastards who decided to screw around with the lives and happiness of those he had come to call a family.

“Will you have trouble bringing this to Zürich?” he asked finally.

“Arrangements have been made for an affiliate to receive us. There should be no issues.”

“And planting it?” This part was going to be difficult even for an Overwatch agent—you were just a funeral directory, a coroner, nothing more. 

You looked at the body, and he noticed your grip on his shoulder had become tighter. 

“Rest assured. When it happens, we just have to make sure we’re the ones who secure the body. Just be sure your will clearly states you wish to be cremated.” 

“It does.” But he has no choice. He had to do this. 

“Excellent, then we will handle everything else on this side.”

“I’m counting on you.” It sounded more like a plead to his ears.

You nodded. “Yes.” You paused for a moment as if debating you next words. You shook your head and smiled again at him, this time, with more emotion than he’s seen all day. “Please stay in good health, sir.” 

“…I’ll try.”


	64. Bygone Era (Reinhardt-centric)

Reinhardt prefers silence in his old age—no, that is not correct. He prefers the chatter of good company, and the sound of things at work (Brigitte is very good at that, perhaps too good—she takes after her father, clearly, the workaholic). But he no longer watches any television shows or listens to any music. Even the humming his trusty assistant produces is difficult to listen to.

Songs from an era of his pride have become rehashed, making cameos in his daily life: in the background of some show on holovision or the hum of a child walking past him on the street. The tunes, the words still allude to distorted illusions of glory, honor, and Overwatch, and nothing of the sacrifices made.

Now he couldn’t even bear to listen anymore, hoping the sound of his voice and hammer can drown it all out and wishing those songs would not claim more lives.


	65. Theseus (Widowmaker-centric)

Bit by bit, Widowmaker has been finding herself thinking as she stared down the scope of her rifle.

Gérard had once posed to her a question that he found in one of his books: if a ship were to have all its parts replaced over time, is it still the same ship?

The human body was said to have all its cells entirely replaced within seven to ten years, not simultaneously, of course, but in a decade’s time, could you really say that you were still the same person several years ago?

The words of old texts and the smell of a gently burning cigar sometimes makes its way to the forefront of her mind. Sometimes, while lining up a shot, she remembers those times when, after a performance, she’d find herself in an empty house with new messages on the house recording device and book next to it, complete with bookmarks and loving notes from her absent husband long gone on a mission. 

_“What do you make of this, ma chéri?”_

_“My brilliant star, I leave with you my thoughts, and I pray you share yours when I return.”_

_“With love even from afar, my heart will be beside you.”_

She’d sit in his favorite lounge chair, the aroma of his favorite smoke clinging to it while she mulled over the enigmas her husband had left her, even if she were tired from a long day of practice. Her husband would return several days later, and they would share dinner.

Sometimes during, sometimes before, and sometimes long after the candles have been lit, they would discuss the meaning of the texts while he holds her hand in his. Gérard would then ask her of her performances and listen even as his eyes struggle to remain open. He’d insist on hearing of a sequence, or a step, or anything she’d want to talk about, and she would indulge until he fell asleep, hands still intertwined. 

More recently, instead of the old grip of the rifle, she’d feel the warmth of her husband, his hand covering hers. In the middle of the night, she’d awaken, feeling as though someone were beside her, or reach for the space beside her, only the hit the wall or empty air—her bed was far too small for another. And she’d return to sleep, feeling a strange stir in her chest that she couldn’t feel before. 

It bothered her. 

With each additional meeting with Overwatch, and with each encounter with Ana Amari (sometimes through the scope where they both stared each other down, daring the other to pull), she found herself awash with unease. With every shot she fired at her, the feeling slowly grows like the ache of a thorn. 

Why?

Sombra and Reaper must’ve noticed her change, too, but they do not mention it to her. 

It isn’t until she returns to France to visit her husband’s grave—it is her husband after all, even if she feels nothing—does she come to a small realization. 

There’s a faint coil of something bitter in her chest makes her stay at the grave longer than necessary. She only stares at the grave, and can’t even conjure up the image of her deceased spouse’s face anymore, nor his voice. But she could still remember the smell of his favorite cigars, and that makes her chest clench something unpleasant, and she runs. 

She runs through the streets of France. A bakery Gérard bought his coffee from. A venue she once danced at. The park where she and Gérard went to on rainy days because their indoor garden was exquisite. A restaurant they had both gone to after one of her larger performances. 

The woman shakes her head and continues to run, but the thought still follows her. Is she still the same Widowmaker who killed her husband? 

* * *

“…Widowmaker.”

She does not lift her head, nor does she acknowledge him, lost in her own thoughts of cigars and books and philosophical texts. 

“Widowmaker.”

Reaper narrows his eyes, a tiny sliver of suspicion that he hasn’t quite been able to squelch since some time ago. 

“ _Amélie_.”

Only then does she respond. Not in the mocking way or sarcastic flirty way that Reaper was used to when he first said her real name when he encountered her. No, she just looks at him with the near same expression he remembered from the woman that he used to see in the by Gérard Lacroix’s side—bright, curious, cautious, but still commanding in her presence. It does not last long however, and could’ve even been the trick of the light, maybe a manifestation of his old self projected onto the real world, but he, in a way, wants to believe as well. 

“ _Oui_ , Reaper?” 

Reaper let out a heavy exhale, and crossed his arms. 

“…never mind.” 

In a voice softer than a gravelly whisper, he says, “Gérard wouldn’t have blamed you.” 

A tower of mist swallows him, leaving her to ponder on his words. 


	66. Legacy Code (Sombra-centric)

It’s not uncommon for Sombra to get orders to break into an organization’s system or two. Some are easier than others, but that’s a part of the fun. 

Throughout the past fifty or so years since it was popularized, cybersecurity practices now are arguably better than when it first became recognized as an industry. Most security controls are automated and controlled by AIs, limiting the number of human errors that could take place. (Layer 8* problems, if one were to be technical about it.)

That doesn’t mean, however, that it is without flaws. Security always will be as strong as its weakest link. You just have to know where to look. And Sombra has no issues peeking under the hood of these systems and exploiting their false sense of security. 

She wonders how long it’ll take the administrative offices of Madrid to realize she’s in, tapping away at their ledger server.

There’s always the risk of getting caught by an alert monkey or someone of the like. That, too, is a part of the fun. It then becomes a race to the bottom. How much information can she exfiltrate while evading active defenses against her exploits and how many backdoors can she leave without being detected. 

She runs a hand through her hair as she single-handedly (literally) breaches the system, a triumphant grin on her face. Long passwords, biometric authentication, and multi-factor authentication is useless when the account owner adheres to neither controls. Not hard. 

But as the system’s dialogue boxes appear on her screen, she has to pause. The text is blocky. White on black. It’s not the colorful interfaces she’s used to seeing. It looks more akin to a text RPG or command line prompt. A proprietary DOS system, then? 

Test command after test command goes into the system until it finally spits out the path of the code library she’s looking for. Navigating her way through (and downloading anything of interest she sees), she cracks open the library that holds the proverbial keys to the kingdom. 

Sombra cackles, the clacking of her nails on hardlight keys audible above her sarcastic laughter. “What the hell is it written in? _Fortran_?”

She pauses to think before typing in a few test commands. On another screen, she throws up four windows, each with a search engine. Research soon covers that screen as she skins over the information. A potential exploit fills the screen of the hacked system with text. 

Disbelief grows with each line she reads. 

“No way.”

There’s a moment of breathtaking silence. Rereading the code’s syntax, she whispers, “¡Ay, dio’ mio! It _is_.“

The chair springs upright again as she launches herself forward.

“Which Fortran is this? 90? Do I even have a compatible complier—?”

Sombra’s fingers jackhammer across her keyboard as she mutters incoherently to herself. Finding legacy code in her line of work is not uncommon. She’s seen Pascal and C before, a lot of SQL and Java.

But Fortran?

It’s beyond legacy. Old technology that has no right existing in this age so far removed from the days of computers that took up half a room and were given instructions manually by way of punch cards. It should be considered a dead language in the same way Latin is dead. To think this language is still in use over a hundred years after its initial creation, it’s insane.

"Whoever’s maintaining this is probably ancient,” she mutters. 

This job takes longer than usual on the account of the language’s age. Sombra never thought she’d have to write anything in Fortran so close to the 22nd century. 

The system is thoroughly broken down into its most basic pieces, the source code–the backbone of the system–decompiled and stolen along with all the financial information about the administrative offices. Soon, Talon can threaten them with misconduct and bribe them with just the right amount. 

In the meantime, the code will continue to run with a few choice modifications. Modifications that would give her access at any time and send a record of all activity to a different host. If she feels so inclined, she might even create false trails to set up a scapegoat in case of discovery.

It’s another job well done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the news story of New Jersey’s unemployment system still running on Fortran as of April 2020.


	67. Repeat (Baptiste-centric)

“And what has Overwatch done for us during the Crisis?”

Tracer spluttered, her mouth hanging open in blatant disbelief, scandalized. “Overwatch did loads during the Crisis! They ended it, for crying out loud! Th—”

“They abandoned us.”

Baptiste’s voice boded no argument, solemn yet strangely fragile in a way that belied his current stance: standing tall over them all, looking down like a judge.

He continued, “After Overwatch defeated the omnics, they abandoned us, celebrating among themselves when we were still starving, our families and homes broken. And you call that ‘ending a crisis’?”

Tracer seemed to be at a loss for words, eyes moving and blinking, searching her mind for something to say—not just something, but the right thing. It’s true, Overwatch’s priority during the Crisis was just to end it. Providing humanitarian aid came far later, and in certain cases, it had come a little too late. She’s only ever heard bits and pieces of this history, having been too young to have joined what would then become Overwatch. But the words he’s slung at her stung just as much as if she were responsible, and it paralyzes her tongue.

Baptiste must’ve taken her silence for an answer. He turned away with some final words thrown over his shoulder.

“We are all fighting to make the world a better place, but I will not do things your way. I will **not** make the same mistakes Overwatch did.”


	68. Poor Planning (Shimada brothers-centric)

“Do you ever think these things through?”

“You know I don’t.”

Hanzo would throw up his hands if they weren’t occupied with holding him up against the wall. A six-pack of beer rests sits precariously in his hoodie, held up only by the strategic placement of his hips and thighs whenever he takes a step. Genji is no better, a backpack full of liquors and two bottles in each of his pants pocket (and one large bottle in his hoodie).

Instead, Hanzo settles for rolling his eyes so hard, he sees colors.

Winston had declared an Overwatch-style prohibition in an effort to curb excessive drinking by some of the less restrained members (i.e. Hanzo, Reinhardt, and a few others who cannot be shamed or guilted into stopping).

In the beginning, it was originally agreed that every agent can do whatever they want in their personal time as long as it does not interfere with missions. It quickly became clear that missions don’t give a crap about their personal time or whatever they might be doing, regardless of where they are.

Staying in the different Watchpoints for easier dispatch proved trying. If there was communal alcohol, it’d disappear faster than a pot of morning coffee. There was also concerns of underage drinking that even McCree, despite having had his first drink before he even dropped out of school, concurred with.

Which is how Genji and Hanzo managed to get themselves into this situation: hanging off the side of the Watching with alcohol weighing down their clothes, trying to evade sensors monitored by Athena who is doing her best to enforce Winston’s new policy.

“We’re going to freeze to death. For alcohol.”

“Better than not having any, brother.”

Hanzo silently agrees, but he refuses to affirm his brother’s words. He takes a few more steps up the side of the building, carefully eying one of the cameras, unsure if it’s on or off. “I hope you have a plan for when you get caught.”

“Me?!” Genji sounds scandalized. “You’re an accomplice.”

“I don’t plan on getting caught.”

“If you abandon me, I’m telling on you.”

“And I will tell Dr. Ziegler about that time you were jealous of that boy in high school and pulled down your underwear in front o—”

“That’s not how it went, Hanzo, stop mis-telling the story.” 

“Then figure a way out of this.”

“That won’t be necessary, gentlemen.”

Both Hanzo and Genji freeze as Winston’s voice booms over a hidden loudspeaker. “I believe you both have some explaining to do.”

Caught, the two brothers share a silent look before the two of them separate—Hanzo climbing up the building and Genji jumping off. They both make their attempts to escape, only to be brought back much, much later in the day sans alcohol.


	69. Imploration (Sojiro Shimada & Gabriel Reyes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion to "On-Guard".
> 
> 「」indicate speech in Japanese.

「Sapporo, please.」

“Water.”

The two men waited in silence for their respective drinks to come. They sat side by side at the counter in the furthest seats away from the door with a great view of the dinky ramen shack that could barely seat ten people. One was obviously a foreigner to this place. The other patron was obviously from the area, dressed in nothing but jinbei, and personally greeted by the shopkeeper warmly in his thick dialect (「Welc—oh! So-chan, long time! How are th'boys?」)

Their drinks were placed in front of them not too long, and they each took a pull, relishing in the relief the liquids brought them in this humid weather. The cicadas were loud, and combined their voices with the cheap electrical fan overhead, almost enough to make up for the simmering silence in the shop. Though, one of the patrons decided that cicadas make for terrible conversationalists, and that perhaps the man next to him would be better.

“Are you a perhaps a tourist?” Sojiro asked coolly in near perfect English, eyes crinkling in mirth. Gabriel’s eyes swept the shop before focusing on the man. There were very few who would know English in this part of town. Both were able to speak freely in this nearly abandoned shop. The shopkeep himself was tending to his broth unhurriedly.

Gabriel took a sip of his water, condensation already forming on the side from the hot summer air.

“Yeah, something like that. You a local?”

“Something like that,” he repeated cheekily. Gabriel snorted. His new friend had a sense of humor.

“Are you here for business, then?”

The air shifted briefly when Sojiro said that, and Gabriel had to grin. It reeked of danger and shady dealings. “I’m just here for…sight-seeing. Heard that Hanamura was quite…magical this time of year.”

Sojiro mirrored his expression, a knowing look in his eyes. “Of course. Hanamura is very beautiful. You’ve come at a good time, friend.” He jerked a chin at the shopkeeper behind the counter.

「Koma-chan!」

「Ay, So-chan? What can I do fer ya?」

「My new friend here wants your Tonkotsu special. Double eggs, extra firm noodles, make them wavy. Oh, and don’t forget the garlic. Two heads of it.」

With a knowing nod, and a curt, 「Sure thin’,」 the shopkeeper clicked off the fire to his broth, provided the two a pitcher of water to drink at their leisure, and disappeared into the back, leaving the two customers by their lonesome. The lights above their heads flicked momentarily, and a dull buzzing current that Gabriel could feel crawling up the back of his bare neck. Neither of the patrons moved until they could hear the wooden door to the shop click shut, and a body leaning heavily against it—basic assurance that no one will come in.

In the privacy of the shop guarded by a man who’s paid to keep secrets, both men were able to drop their pretenses.

“Where are my noodles, Shimada?” Gabriel gestured grandly at the kitchen just behind the bar table they sat at. “You promised me noodles when I got here.”

Sojiro laughed out loud. “You’ll get them, Reyes-san. Where is your hat?”

The Blackwatch commander ran a hand over his bare head, seeming annoyed now that he was reminded that he was bereft of his signature beanie. “At home getting tossed ‘round like a toy by some ingrate. Probably.”

The Japanese man had to raise an eyebrow at that. “Oh? A dog, is it?”

The image of Jesse McCree as a dog—the correct analog was a roadside mutt, really—wasn’t entirely wrong, but Gabriel waved it off. “Something like that. But enough of this bull.”

“Yes,” Sojiro said coolly. “Welcome to my Hanamura, I am very pleased you were able to make it.”

The possessiveness does not go unnoticed—a dual invitation and a threat.

“’was getting tired of talking to you through stupid cigarette paper.” From one of his inner pockets, Gabriel tossed out a rolled up piece of scrap onto the table, which Sojiro picked up, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, amused.

“I had assumed you liked my style. Apologies.” The paper disappeared into the inside of Sojiro’s sleeves as he crossed his arms.

Gabriel snorted in disbelief. “If you were really sorry, you’d get your ass on one of our comms already and not send one of your mechanical birds. You’re a damn hack, Shimada,” he said, pounding the table just once to get his point across.

“You flatter me.”

“That ain’t a compliment.”

“Then I’m afraid I misunderstood.” He pressed a mocking hand to his heart. “Forgive the ignorance of this old man.”

While the runaround was annoying, Gabriel could appreciate the sarcasm, it’s much better than listening to the straight-laced Jack Morrison all day. “Just get on with it. You said you had a favor to ask Blackwatch?”

“Ah, yes.”

Sojiro leaned against the bar counter with one elbow, suddenly donning the posture of one more fitting of his actual position. Comfortable, unhurried, but menacing. “But first, allow me to tell you the tale passed down from our family throughout the generations.”

The Blackwatch commander drained the last of his water, and waved the bottom of it at him, willing him to continue. He had a feeling that he’d be forced to hear it whether he wanted to or not.

“My family tells of an ancient legend about two great dragon brothers…”

By the time the story was over, Gabriel was leaned over the counter, his palm digging another crater-sized dimple into his face. “And? What does that have to do with your clan?”

“We, the Shimada clan, descended from those dragons,” he paused, looking thoughtful for a moment before he looked at Gabriel with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "or so it’s said. Though, some have interpreted the story to mean that the two dragons were once the rulers of the Shimada clan. When the Dragon of the North killed his younger brother, he did not fall to the ground. He fell on a Shimada.”

The image of a multi-ton mythical snake falling onto some poor soul made Gabriel laugh out loud, and he slapped the table, shaking the empty glasses in his mirth. Sojiro was not particularly bothered by this, and let him laugh it out—he’s dealt with worse, he has two sons that could disappear at a moment’s notice (one of which does it on a nearly bi-hourly basis).

Gabriel finally calmed down after a couple of minutes, he was clutching his stomach, tears at the corner of his eyes. By that time, Sojiro has already drained the last of his alcohol. “That’s hilarious, Shimada.”

His lips quirked upward and he shrugged far more casually than a man who just had his family legacy laughed at should. “There’s more—”

“Did he fall on more than one?”

“—to this theory. When the elder Dragon was asked to descend, he did not descend onto any land, but _into_ a Shimada. Possessed a human body.”

“That interpretation’s a stretch, isn’t it?”

Sojiro shrugged again. “Regardless, these dragons are in our family. And the Shimadas have the ability to control them.”

“And? If you have those mythical dragons running around, why do you need our help?”

Sojiro laughed humorlessly. “Because, Reyes-san, you are a smart man. You should understand.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere, Shimada. I’m not making my people do your dirty work for you.”

“Of course not, and this request is not without adequate compensation.”

Sojiro poured water into Gabriel’s empty glass and then into his own. Gabriel watched quietly as the man turned away from him and ran a hand through his hair slowly, the streaks of grey a testament to how difficult his life must have been. The man’s chest expanded with a deep breath, unwilling to actually sigh, before he faced the Blackwatch commander again.

“They killed my wife, Reyes-san,” Sojiro said solemnly. “Now they seek to kill me to control my sons.”

His eyebrow raised. “The news said she died of heart failure.” Not that Gabriel believed everything he heard in the news, but he was admittedly not very concerned with Japanese politics at the time. The Shimadas always kept their affairs to Japanese soil, though there were always rumors of the clan being seen in various areas of South and East Asia.

The widower scoffed, downing his new glass of water as though it’ll cleanse him of this reality.

“They lie,” Sojiro huffed bitterly. “They killed her. Because she was a strong woman. She frightened the clan elders.” A flash of fondness crossed his face. “She was beautiful. Powerful. But then…”

He gnashed his teeth, and Gabriel could’ve sworn he was imagining it, but something beneath the clan leader’s clothes seemed to glow. “The filthy cowards. They thought I would not discover it.”

“Discover what?”

“They did something to her. She became different.” The older man’s hazel eyes became hard, glaring holes into the wooden counter. “It was still my wife, but she—she began to lose sight of herself. She looked the same, but she…” He shook his head roughly. “I do not know what happened, but only that the clan elders were responsible.”

“You said something about killing you to control your sons?”

“Yes, yes.” He waved a hand, nonchalant, as if his life was a trivial matter. “My sons are still young. In the case of my eldest, Hanzo, I’m afraid his burden is a much heavier destiny than he can bear.”

“How so?”

“The eldest’s role is to lead the clan.” 

“So, he’s just a you 2.0.” 

Sojiro shakes his head. “It would be my greatest joy, but my greatest sorrow if he were to become like his father.” 

“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” 

“If only my second son fell nearer. Wild and rambunctious; capricious.”

“Why? Second son belongs to the milkman?”

Even Reyes knows when he’s crossed the line, regretting those words the instance they left his mouth. There was a threatening crackle in the air, every sense in his body running rampant and screaming danger was near. Sojiro’s face remained carefully neutral, but there’s hardness to his eyes that even Reyes, a hardened soldier and having given the look himself many times, felt compelled to retract his statement. 

“My bad.”

Sojiro nodded. “Do you know our clan’s symbol?”

He’s seen it several times before in pictures of the mobster in the reports he’s given occasionally. Sojiro normally wore it proudly on his back during the day, unlike now, in an unassuming set of the equivalent of lounging clothes. The two dragons like an ouroboros—eating the other rather than itself. Normally, an ouroboros signifies the cycle of creation and life, all as one. Ana had taught this to him before among other things during their times of idleness.

But two of them trying to eat the other? Gabriel could fathom a guess, but he’s sure it’d be a poor one. He’s not much for this sort of philosophical thinking. (It was honestly more of the space gorilla’s favorite pastime.)

“It is rare that both dragons, North and South, are born together in the same generation. Both my sons have received the blessing of dragons.” Sojiro swirled his glass, the water formed a mini-tornado within. “It was supposed to be joyous. The strongest generation, the elders claimed. Finally, the two dragon brothers have been reunited.”

“Isn’t that a good thing for you guys?”

“But there is a problem. My son, Hanzo, has two dragons.”

The meaningful look Sojiro gave him forced the truth upon him so quickly, he got figurative whiplash.

“So they only require one of the brothers, then.”

Sojiro’s eyes were downcast, the grip on his empty glass so tight, it was clattering against the table. “Once they have Hanzo, they will have no need for Genji.”

As with all succession fights, any bit of context could become fuel or justification for a coup.

“Didn’t know the dragon legend had a third brother.”

“Not explicitly. But if one were to read between the lines of text, you could infer the existence of an East and West Wind. But that is hardly relevant. Who would believe such a thing?” 

Gabriel shrugged. It’s true. If it’s not mentioned anywhere, there’s no reason for anyone to believe such a thing. “But why kill your other son? Isn’t the more dragons the better? More auspicious, isn’t it?”

“No. It has to be two dragons, or one of the two.”

“In that case, Genji has no use. They could just oust him or something.” 

Sojiro slammed his glass against the table in anger. “It is _because_ Genji still has a use that the clan elders want him dead. They cannot control him, so they will seek his death.”

It would be easy for another faction to challenge Hanzo’s legitimacy. Hanzo may have two dragons, but they could argue it’s the result of some defect—one dragon split into two. It’s a stretch, but a very compelling possibility. Genji, on the other hand, is whole. If a branch family were to rally behind Genji and claim him as the true heir, the clan elders would either be forced to recognize it or forced to have a civil war. Neither options were desirable.

Genji, from Sojiro’s account, is a force of nature; untameable and unflappable. A cheeky young thing with no regards toward tradition or hierarchy. A walking nightmare for a band of traditionalists stewing in their own filth they call “order”.

“Should you really be leaving your sons alone, then?”

“My eldest cousin, Asahi, is guarding my youngest, Genji. My other cousin is guarding Hanzo. I trust them both to watch over my sons properly.”

Gabriel took a contemplative sip of water, staring off into space. “Cousins, huh? So they’re branch members?”

The unspoken implication hung heavily over their heads, but Sojiro responded, “Reyes-san. I trust them.” 

“Glad _someone_ does.”

It’s not unheard of for the branch members of a family in the middle of a power struggle to take sides or drastic measures. It’s natural, even. Some members may even want to lay claim to the Head seat themselves. But the case of the Shimadas, whose worth was determined by the family’s dragons, they could only make due with manipulating the leader. Gabriel has seen more than his fair share of skirmishes over seats of power, and the inevitable mess of an aftermath. 

Gabriel tapped the counter. “I don’t see why I’m here, though. If we’re talking allies, Talon should be higher on the list than us.”

Sojiro’s lip curled in derision. “They do not know their place.”

“Oh, and we do?” 

“You’re much more preferable to work with. And many times more trustworthy than Talon.”

“Well, I’m honored,” Gabriel answered sarcastically, putting a hand to his chest. “That you think we could do something that even you or Talon cannot do.” 

That Sojiro spoke of his sons and the sticky matter of his clan’s politics to an outsider was extremely telling. It’s a weakness that Gabriel never thought he’d ever get to see. 

“It must be funny to you that the head of the Shimada clan—ruler of all Hanamura—can’t even protect his own children,” Sojiro spat out bitterly. “It is shameful for me to ask an outsider this, but…”

Gabriel did not expect the man to suddenly get on his hands and knees, pressing his forehead to the ground. “Please, protect my sons. I beg you as the father of these two children, please.”

“Get up, Shimada.” Despite his words, the Blackwatch commander was already trying to pull him up. This look does not suit the head of the Shimada empire. Such a powerful man grovelling at his feet when he was only stomping around on things unmentionable just the week before was unsettling.

The man refused to budge, as though the weight of his request and the lives that rested on Reyes’ answer kept him glued to the floor. 

“I beg you.” 

“Don’t be an ass, Shimada.” 

“When I die, I have no power to protect them. They are too green. They lack power.”

“Isn’t that your damn job as a parent?”

“I cannot!” Sojiro shouted. “I have failed as a parent. I cannot hope to pretend to be one now. I can only entrust this to someone I trust.”

“You’d trust an enemy, Shimada?” 

“Yes.”

It was a peculiar thing that most people would never understand. Multiple encounters of their teams clashing, outsmarting each other, outmaneuvering the other forged an ironclad trust that many people would never have the privilege of experiencing. Someone who knows all your weaknesses, your strengths, morals, and respects the rules which you play by. It’s how they were both able to meet in such a place, neither with weapons or additional guards. This was a peculiar bond that perhaps only enemies would ever know. 

Gabriel sighed, dropping his ass onto the ground. “You’re a real piece of work, Shimada.” 

“So I’ve been told,” Sojiro replied, a hint of a smile in his voice. He slowly raised his head from the ground, a red mark maring his forehead. “Is that a ‘yes’, then?”

Again, Gabriel sighed. What Sojiro was asking of him was not only going to be difficult, but risky as well. It could put Overwatch (and Blackwatch) at serious political risk with the Japanese government. Even worse, it would make them the target of the Shimada clan and all of its affiliates and stakeholders. Jack would definitely be opposed to such a plan. 

Even if they managed to protect the two brothers, the only thing Blackwatch would get out of this is the lukewarm gratitude of two brats who would not know the desperate lengths to which their father went to protect their lives and future. And they would likely never understand or appreciate it. 

High risk, low reward was not how Blackwatch liked to operate.

But Gabriel Reyes was a different story. 

“We’ll need a proper plan. Can’t guarantee it’ll work out, but we need your cooperation if we’re going to maximize our chances of getting either of your sons out of this in one piece.” 

“Of course. You have my thanks, Reyes-san.” 

The deal was sealed with a handshake and the ramen that Sojiro owed Reyes. Both men made small talk for the rest of the night before leaving to don the mantle of their respective roles. 

When Gabriel returned, the details with Sojiro were confirmed. Blackwatch’s mission is to keep a watchful eye over the two brothers and ensure they stay alive. If possible, get them out by force. 

He assigned you to Hanamura under the pretense that you will be gathering information about their arms trade by becoming the bodyguard of a Shimada heir. You will get close to them, get them to divulge their secrets. While it’s true that the Shimadas were involved in the exchange of weaponry, he did not disclose to you the real reason—it’s better if you didn’t know. You will protect them anyway, keep an eye on both brothers regardless.

After all, it goes without saying that in order to fool your enemies, you must first fool your allies.

The implant goes without a hitch, at least, from his part.

Sojiro continued to communicate with him through the tiny scrolls delivered by his robotic birds—entirely indistinguishable from ordinary ones. His coded messages were short, but expressed his gratitude and trepidation.

The news of Sojiro’s death does not surprise him. 

What did surprise him was your insistence on leaving. 

“I’m with the wrong Shimada!” you hissed into your communicator, and Gabriel stopped himself from telling you just how wrong that statement was. 

Instead, he carefully considered your words. If you were to leave, there’d be no one around to report on either Shimada brother. It was hard enough for Sojiro to get you accepted in their fold, and it wouldn’t do to waste such an opportunity.

But on the other hand, the oligarchy surrounding the new Shimada head would be considerably less cautious if the outsider finally leaves their midst. Their guard might even be down for a short while as they take the chance to eliminate you which meant there’d be a window of time for Blackwatch to act. 

It might be worth taking this chance. They could get you and Genji out alive. From your reports, you’ve built a fair amount of trust between yourself and your charge. A few words and the promise of freedom might convince the younger Shimada to go with them. 

“Jack, we’re storming Hanamura.”

“What? Gabe! We don’t have jurisdiction over Japan! What are you thinking?”

“I have an agent who wants out. This departure is going to turn the Shimada’s inside-out, I can’t imagine the clan will let a foreigner leave so easily.” 

Moments of silence later, Jack heaved a shuddering sigh. Gabriel could just imagine the man rubbing his forehead, trying to formulate a speech for the media when this all goes to hell in a hand basket. “When?”

“A week from now. Dead of night.”

Little did he know, a week from now, they’d be storming Hanamura for very different reasons.


	70. Take Care (Zarya & Reader)

“What are you doing here?”

The heavily accented voice startles you, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re glad that you’ve already put down the weights that would have broken your foot otherwise.

“I was…training,” you say. Zarya, massive arms crossed over her chest, looks at you with open skepticism. “I was!”

“Nyet. You’re injuring self.” You wince, her tone accusatory. The weights that you had such a hard time pulling up, she grabs with one easy swoop, placing them back on their rightful places. The heavy ‘thud’ and ‘clang’ signals an effective and definitive end to your training. Zarya’s strength is almost mockingly unfair.

She points to the bench in a silent order to sit. You obey sulkily, dragging your feet like a child who has been sentenced to a time-out. It doesn’t really strike you just how tired your body is until you sit, legs like lead and hands weighed down by it’s own exhaustion. Zarya’s kneels right before you and drops a medical kit open beside you, her hands enveloping your wrists. Her hands are significantly cooler than your own, probably because of the inflammation compounded by the hour of dead-lifting you’ve subject yourself to. She scrutinizes them, turning your hands and flexing them this way and that. You have to bite your lip to keep from yelling out because oh fuck that hurts.

“You cannot be strong if you abuse your body–resting is also part of training,” she says wisely. You shrink back, slightly shamed at having to receive a lecture. “Are you trying to die?”

“I’m just trying to keep up with everyone,“ you say softly.

Zarya levels you with a hard look, but an edge of amusement dances along her eyes. “By breaking self?”

You tear your gaze away, ignoring the way your neck reddens. “I had proper form.”

She laughs, clapping you on the back and almost launching you into her broad chest. It feels like a bear just smacked the breath out of you. “Proper form with broken wrists? Funny.”

“They’re not broken!” You insist. Now your back aches. “They’re just sprained.”

She crushes an ice pack in her hand, wrapping it in a cloth before resting it on both your wrists. You notice that one of her hands easily grip onto the two of yours without trouble. It’s so unfair.

Her voice drops when she speaks next, seemingly contemplative. “Take care of your body. Training recklessly will only make you weak, remember that. I did not become almost-champion by not resting. Remember that.” Her eyes meet yours, a blazing conviction behind them.

“No amount of strength is worth destroying self for. Love yourself, love your body. And it will love you back.”


	71. Fire (Lúcio & Reader)

The pulsing of the berimbau become indistinguishable from your heartbeat. The beat of the atabaque and the sharp clangs of the agogo drown out your thoughts. The claps are your footsteps and the singing mingle with your harsh breaths.

Your opponent is one grab away from getting destroyed. Your foot yanks your opponent’s out from under him and he, not expecting it, hits the floor with a bang, almost dragging your pants with him. Your heel comes down swift like a hammer into his unguarded ribs. The crowd’s sympathetic yells almost drown out his, and the music rises in alarm. Two hands come out from the ring of bodies that surround you both, interrupting your rampage. You hold back a snarl as Lúcio emerged from the crowd.

“You want to _buy_ my troubles? My anger?”

His smile is gentle unlike the words you throw at him. The berimbau calls for a reset and the master nods his chin, giving his approval to begin anew.

Lúcio dodges your preemptive kick with a fake cartwheel, fell back on his heel (purposefully, carefully), and rolled out the way of another kick aimed at his face. You barely notice your previous opponent scrambling back into the roda.

One kick leads into another that Lúcio jumps out of the way of. He lands on his hands, folds his knees to his chest, and springs back, aims for your legs like scissors. They move to snap closed around your knees, but you jump into a cartwheel, avoid the trap. But he’s already moving again. His armored heel flies at your face. You press your body to the ground, almost melting into it and swing a leg around for the momentum to launch into a kick that springs from the ground. He masterfully dodges that, too.

This fucker _moves_.

You didn’t care that your steps were too shallow, that you put too much torque into a kick and completely miss. You want vengeance and you want it swift.

You are getting tired; he must know that. But he doesn’t rush.

This is a game. And games like these require strategy and a cool head. Lúcio bides his time, singing with the bateria (“ _Zum zum zum, capoeira mata um_!”) and waiting for your fire to go out.


	72. Grass is Greener (Lúcio& Reader)

“Lúcio. _Lúcio!!”_ The young man smiled at you, opening his arms and presenting himself to your increasing excited scrutiny. Blood rushed through you at a dizzying speed, excitement that you’ve never felt before zips through your veins, and your fingers—they’re trembling—slowly cover your mouth. 

“You’re—what _is_ that? That’s…” 

His smile widened, and he pointed to his shirt. “ _This_ is green.” 

A strangled noise made its way out of your throat, it shook the urge to cry inside you. You had to remove the glasses that granted you this sight to rub at your eyes. 

“That’s beautiful,” you choked out, reaching out a hand to touch his shirt lightly by the fingertips. “It’s the prettiest, nicest—most amazing color I’ve ever seen!” 

“Come on, I gotta show you something.” 

Lúcio led you by the hand out into the yard. Your jaw dropped open; an embarrassingly loud gasp echoed in the wide-open space. No words came out of your mouth—the vivid hues were almost blinding. Your eyes stung as you fought to keep them open as long as you could. The flowers and the grass looked they were waving at you, dancing—they looked so much livelier with their enhanced appearance. No, not enhanced. It was normal, but to you, this was something ethereal. It swept your breath away.

You don’t even notice that you were gripping Lúcio’s hand with so much force, your own fingers were stiff. Ever smiling, he took the pain graciously. 

“Like what you see?” 

“I _love_ it,” you said immediately, breathlessly. “I _love_ this—this earth, it’s…”

“Worth fight for?” Lena appeared beside you in a flash, and even that couldn’t jolt you out of the hypnotic joy that wells up in your chest.

“YES.” 

Without warning, you tore yourself away from your companions, the blood in your body bidding you to run wild and you threw yourself with a shrill laugh into the grass—it felt the same, wet, soft, tickling your skin. It smelled the same, crispy and earthy, but the look—just seeing it with its natural color made it seem more real and all the picnics and prolonged lingering of your teammates at the memorial hill make so much sense. 

Lúcio and Lena watched you roll around in the field, glad to have brought happiness to you simply through a pair of glasses and a whole new world of color. 


	73. Flawless (Zarya & Reader)

“How’s your skin so nice?”

Zarya grins at you, the flush from her recent workout makes her face practically glow. “Sweat, my friend. Lots of water and good sweat.”

You look away from her proud smile, suddenly feeling self-conscious. ‘Good genetics, too, probably.’

“Why sudden question?”

“No, nothing. It’s just…” You heave a mighty sigh shoulders slumping. “I’ve…tried everything. Acne cream, exfoliating, charcoal face washes, tomatoes slices, lemon juice—”

“—lemon juice? For drinking, yes?”

“Uh, no…for my face.”

“For face.” She looks downright skeptical, eyebrow raises, arms crossed and everything. “Never heard of lemon juice for face before.” An irrational bolt of anger strikes you. Of course she hasn’t, her skin is flawless—even her scar is a point of charm.

“I needed it!” you say hotly. “I thought I’d give it a try ‘cause, well, look at me! I’m a mess!”

“Nonsense,” she says, waving a hand in the air. “Nonsense, you’re beautiful. Is inside that counts.”

“Easy for you to say.” The anger burns higher, faster. “You’re gorgeous, and I’m—I’m…this!”

You gesture helplessly, frantically, at your face and body, a strangled noise of frustration wrung from your throat, fire rampaging through you, chasing tears to the forefront of your eyes. She can’t understand. You’ve tried everything you could and no results to show for it. You’re tired of this physical and emotional agony.

Zarya’s eyes soften just a sliver at your apparent distress, and before you could completely cool off or let your fire run its course, Zarya’s arms envelop you in a comforting hug. You struggle momentarily—you don’t need her pity.

“Believe me, you’re fine,” she rumbles. Her warmth rolls into you, seeping into your bones, and easily overwhelms your previous anger, leaving behind nothing but echoes of Zarya’s kindness. You bite your lip. Slowly, you bring your arms around her back (you realize that you can’t even get your arms around her fully) and try to return the hug as best you can.

She holds you just a bit tighter as though to squeeze out any remaining animosity. You both remain like that for some time until Zarya breaks the hug first. You can’t help but admit to yourself that you wanted to be held a bit longer—it was very nice.

She jerks her head at the door. “Let’s get Hana. Зайка must have a tip or two.”

“Why?” You were skeptical of the answer, but Zarya flashes you a cheerful grin, and leans down as though to tell you a secret.

“You know her skincare bag?”

“Yeah…?”

“Big as my arms.” Her arms suddenly flex for emphasis, and you burst out laughing—that was unexpected. Zarya grins at you, hands on her hips, straightening up.

“See? Beautiful smile is sign of beautiful person.”


	74. Offer (Winston & Reader)

“Why should I work for Overwatch, Winston?”

There is a clear and distinct nuance in your words that Winston does not miss. Most people would ask “Why should I work for _you_?” instead. You have stated your position clearly, knowing that you’d be working for an organization and not for him as an individual, and that is valuable in a way that few of the other agents manage to show.

This also means that convincing you won’t be easy. Fame and heroics won’t move you. You would not even entertain the conversation if you were after money considering Overwatch’s current financial position. Power, perhaps, but he has seen your dossier, and determined that you won’t desire that either.

“People are simple creatures,” Hanzo had told him, “with base desires. In the world of employment, there is money, power, and fame. And of course, there are the troublesome people who want only one thing–”

“Entertainment,” Winston offers, his voice overlapping with his memory of Hanzo. “Overwatch can ensure that you won’t be bored.”

Your eyebrows raise and eyes begin to twinkle.

“Oh? What do you mean?”

You didn’t instantly reject it, and that is already a good sign. It gives him the courage to continue.

“As you already know, Overwatch is in a precarious position where many issues are priority and our resources are few. I can assure you these will be some of the most gruesome and rewarding challenges you’ll ever have.”

He watches with sweat forming on his palms and feet as you hum and mull over the unorthodox offer.


	75. Like Your Laugh (Pharah & Reader)

“I like your laugh.”

Fareeha immediately stops laughing at your innocuous declaration, taking in the way your face goes from soft and comfortable to pouty.

“I’m not making fun of you, you know. I really like it.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t know what to say to such honesty. She’s been told she’s a little brash herself, putting her foot in her mouth and speaking too plainly. Being on the receiving end of it with no malice or any intent of a fight catches her off-guard.

Instead, she can only give a crooked smile that’s stuck between awkward, shy, and maybe just the slightest bit flirty. “Thanks. I like yours, too.”

Though she’s quick to burst out laughing again when you screech, shoving your face in your hands to hide from her reciprocation.


	76. Irreparable (Shimada brothers & Reader)

“What’s this?”

You could not pretend not to know, but you did so anyway.

The two Shimada brothers both kneel before you in near perfect symmetrical _seiza_ , only a single sword lying between you and them.

“We would like you to fix this sword, Seventh,” says Genji, his metallic voice still difficult to associate with the vibrant, rambunctious young man you once knew.

You glower at the sheathed weapon on the ground, studying its outer appearance–its grip is somewhat worn from age and its sheath is equally so. Even more interesting is that it also seems to be damaged. It’s likely that its wielder used it as a weapon as well. Unconventional, but it’s a testament to its owner’s mettle. “Didn’t I just fix yours some time ago? What is this?”

The other brother, Hanzo, falters for a moment, a hint of unease passing by his sharp features. “It is mine.”

“Yours?” You lean back into your floor chair and gesture at the sword with your stub of an arm. “So why is _Yata-san_ asking in your stead? Do you not have any spine?” Hanzo furrows his eyebrows at Genji for a moment as if asking who is ‘ _Yata-san’_ , but he says nothing about it.

“He knew you better, so I had wanted him to introduce us,” he answers. What a diplomatic answer. As expected of the heir of the Shimada clan.

You turn to your apprentice in the room. “Leave us. I will take care of them from here.” 

With nothing more than a bow, your apprentice leaves the room. Neither men turn or blink until the doors slide open and close and the footsteps fade away to nothing.

You grab the sword with your only hand, tuck it beneath your other armpit and pull out the sword. Both the brother wince at your unconscious gasp of horror, neither looking at you directly as you evaluate the damage.

There is evidence of having seen fierce battles all over the sword. Most notably is the large chip on the edge that may as well be a chasm. If an amateur had pulled out this sword, it would surely have snapped in two already. Carefully, you undress it, undoing the binding and removing everything that held this sword together, laying it bare on the cloth before you until it is little more than a puzzle to be put together.

Piece by piece, you inspect everything in silence. Despite being offered tea, no sip or unnecessary noise pass between the brothers. They only watch, a nervous tension enveloping them as they wait for your verdict.

The guard, the hilt, the bindings all seem to be in decent shape. Used, but not useless. The _menuki_ –the decorative seal hidden away beneath the criss-crossing of the handle–is undoubtedly of the Shimada clan’s, the telltale dragons that try to eat the other lay docile in your hand, heavy. The mouth of the sheath may need replacing, however, a little dinged from whatever treatment it was subject to. 

Mentally, you take note of all the damages and the best course of action. Regardless of the minor issues this sword may have, there is no greater flaw than the triangle that has been gouged out of it. What could have done this?

It is undoubtedly a finely crafted blade. The tang of the sword has your late master’s seal inscribed onto it along with the name of the sword.

「 」

“The damage done to this sword is too severe.” You trace a path with your finger along the flat side. “This katana cannot be a katana again. At best, I will refashion it into a tantou. Keep it at your chest. Let it protect you.”

Hanzo is immediately up on one knee. “Absurd! Surely you can reforge it!”

“Into a tantou, yes. But not a katana.”

“That’s a–”

Genji raises an arm, stopping his brother in his speech and attempt to get up.

“Why not, Seventh?”

“It’s impossible. The composition would be compromised, and there is already a loss of material. I cannot make it the same way nor would it be fair to the sword itself.”

“That sword is a–” Hanzo stumbles over a breath, and what he’s about to say dies along with a bit of his anger.

You give him the best exasperated look you can muster. “Do you think I would be so disrespectful as to try to make the same blade that my master did and still claim it to be the same thing?”

They both fall silent, simmering in thoughts that you could not know.

“This sword has been through a lot. And if it’s your sword, then I know you must have done the same. This is not damage caused by an amateur wielder, but by a fight of life and death. The sword died the moment it received this wound. Let it be reborn into something else. It’s the least you can do.”

The darkened faces of the two give credence to your theory. So it was a fierce battle. And likely…likely it was between them both. Maybe it is the reason why you have not seen either of them in so many years and why Genji had to come back as ‘Yata-san’ rather than himself and why the Shimada clan declared Genji dead.

“Well? What will you do?”

Haltingly, Hanzo returns to his seiza position and them lowers his head, fists pressed against the floor. Genji slowly follows suit, and you have both brothers bowing to you.

“Please take care of it.”

「お願いします。」


	77. Dressing (Shimada brothers & F!Reader)

“Right over left, right?”

“No, left over right. The other way is for the dead.”

You grumbled and redid the juban you were wearing. Hanzo had to adjust the back again so the seam lined up with the middle of your bared neck, hair twisted into an elaborate fashion. The jade beads from the kanzashi> sticking out of your hair swung minutely as you reached for the next layer.

Hanzo beat you to the punch and gathered the folded nagajuban carefully into his hands and unraveled it. He draped the stark white fabric over your shoulders, adjusting the fabric until the middle was lined up just right. He held out both sleeves in a silent bid for you to put your arms through them. You do so with minimal trouble.

“What’s this one for?” You wrapped the front together (right side first, then left side over it) and hold it there.

“Protecting the kimono from your body’s oils,” he said as he wrapped a string—more of a thin sash— around your middle. You bristle a bit. You weren’t dirty—you took a proper bath, washed your hair, face, and washed your hands again for good measure. “The kimono is thick. You will sweat,” he added as he felt you tense underneath his hands. A thick cloth wrapped around your middle, hiding the string.

“So? We can just wash it right?”

The archer made a sound that sound like a mix between an exaggerated sigh and an indignant grunt. “Kimono are silk. They stain easily, and are not…simple to clean.”

He pulled the collar of your nagajuban back gently but firmly into a standing position, continued until the was enough space to expose the nature of your neck and the edge of the juban underneath. There seemed to be more he wanted to say, but either because he couldn’t find the words for his thoughts or he’s too busy trying to dress you, he just fell silent. You let it be, and just let your eyes wander as Hanzo worked.

The room was small, a dresser with ornaments and cloths of all shapes on your left. It took a long time to determine which would be suitable for you. Genji was here up until moment you had to put on the juban. Prior to that, he was arguing about color and pattern coordination with his brother. Attempts to interject were shot down with the reasoning that they knew what they were talking about.

_“Mint green leaves with red and orange carnations?”_

_“It’s contemporary, brother! Pink with ivory—are you marrying her off?”_

It was hectic, you thought with a fond smile.

The feeling of even heavier fabric upon your back snapped you out of your thoughts. You turned and spied beautiful light pink with patches of ivory and small motifs of green leaves toward the edges of the entire thing. If you looked closer, you could spy specks of gold embroidery hidden in the lively, but modest foliage. Again, Hanzo carefully aligns the middle with the center of your entire being.

He held out the sleeves, and again you slipped your arms through it, albeit with a little trouble as the nagajuban’s sleeves get caught. Hanzo seemed to have already anticipated this, trying to get them to behave in the kimono’s even bigger sleeves. You note with a bit of curiosity that the kimono seemed too long for you—the excess was pooling around the swath of cloth you stood atop of.

Hanzo slipped around to your front, a bundle of silk in his teeth. He knelt before you and pinched the edges of the two halves of the kimono. Before you could even ask why he was doing, he pulled the fabric toward him and with ease, folds the excess fabric in on itself so that the end of the kimono no longer touched the floor, but just barely covered your ankles. He brought the folded halves one over the other, left over right, and held it there with one massive hand. Your pulse quickened as he took the ribbon of silk from his mouth and wrapped it around you, once, twice, before tying it into a tight knot around the front. 

It was rare to see his look of concentration this close. Usually, you’d see if when he was about to fire an arrow or doing maintenance on his equipment. He’d exude an aura that kept everyone away just so he could complete his task. But to be so close to such intensity, it would’ve been hard to deny that you were even a little enamored by the look. 

He stood and made his way behind you again, pulling the collar of the nagajuban and kimono, making minor adjustments until the white of the nagajuban was shyly peeking out of the pink, ivory, and green of your kimono from all sides of your collar.

There was another rustle of cloth before he draped part of a folded fabric, this time much thicker than the kimono, over your left shoulder from your back.  
  
“Hold this.” 

You complied almost automatically, admiring the red and gold threads that wove itself into cranes and flowers that adorned it. He wrapped this around your waist several times, before pulling away the fabric you held. You huffed when the fabric around your waist—

“Hey, what’s this called?”

“Obi.”

—the obi tightened several times in succession, and something was formed at your back. Before you knew it, more silken rope had made its way around you, except this was much thicker and nicer than the two underneath your layers.

Something was shoved around you and into the obi, barely showing it colors.

With these layers wound so tightly around you, it was difficult to breath, and with an experimental shift of your legs—“Stop moving,”—only granted you half a steps’ breadth.

A few more well-placed tugs and knots, another binding of silken rope, and when Hanzo stood in front of you to look you up and down with a curt nod, you knew his work was done.

“This is the minimum you should be wearing,” he said as he gave you another once over. The downward curve at the edge of his lips showed that he was not fully satisfied with his work, but due to the limited resources on hand, it would have to do.

You ignored this and slowly made your way to the full-length mirror with timid steps. The outfit was incredibly difficult to move in, you didn’t know how those shows that portrayed assassins in this get-up managed to do anything. The layers were nothing by themselves, but all together, wrapped so tightly and bundled with so much string, it was nigh impossible to bend or even take a breath.

Not that you could, after seeing yourself in the mirror. You weren’t even sure if the person in the reflection was even you. Gentle green leaves were woven into your ivory sleeves, small pink flowers peeked out from underneath them and scattered themselves all across the edges of your collar and bottom of your kimono. The kanzashi in your hair matched it—green beads draped from it like a waterfall, the flowers were the ones on the kimono come to life. 

Most striking was the obi—a fierce red and white crane adorned the folded back, half hidden in the equally intense chrysanthemum flowers that bloomed all around. The finish was a rope of gold and white that held it all together. You couldn’t suppress the grin that threatened to split your face. 

You were… _beautiful_. 

Hanzo watched you observe yourself in the mirror some more, turning this way and that to capture every single detail. He curled a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Juban: Undershirt  
> 
> * Nagajuban: Long undershirt  
> 
> * Kanzashi: Hair ornament
> 
> A friend is a certified kimono dresser and I wrote this so I wouldn't forget all the times she used me for practice.


	78. Tranquility (Zenyatta & Reader)

“Can I hold your hand?”

Zenyatta tilts his head. “Certainly.”

He holds out his hand and you grasp at it blindly, far too tight to just be casual. The pressure you exert is great, and if his sensors were correct, it is likely fear. He runs through his memory—what could make you so fearful? You were fine before the base lost power, enjoying a conversation with him about Nepal. Ah, perhaps it’s the darkness then. That is a common fear.

“Experience tranquility.”

The darkness scatters as Zenyatta lights up the area, glowing in that ethereal way that makes all enemies pause and consider their mortality for a split second. You blink rapidly as your eyes adjust before you slowly lift your face toward him—if he had a word to describe it, it was almost reverent. 

“You’re wasting your ability for me…?” you ask breathlessly.

“It is not a waste, not for you.”


	79. Pit Stop (McCree & Mei)

McCree and Mei have been hot on the trail of one of the benefactors of the Deadlock gang for quite some time, opting to take the scenic route by car rather than to take to the air. The only issue is that they’ve been trailing behind far enough to keep out of their radar, but that meant they are quite a distance from catching them in the act. But neither of them were in any rush, taking some time to refuel their stomachs at a pit stop along the way, one that McCree was already familiar with. 

McCree didn’t bother hiding his laughter when Mei makes a face at her first sip of the place’s coffee. 

“Tastes like boiled dirt, don’t it?” 

Mei shoots him a look of fond annoyance. “You knew.” 

“’be lyin’ if I said I didn’t.” He chuckled into his own cup. It’s overbrewed, strong, and as nasty as he remembered it. 

She takes a bite of her toast. “Ooh, I won’t forget this, McCree. We’ll see how you like to eat durian.” 

Jesse crinkles his nose at the suggestion (and threat). He’s heard about the notorious fruit said to be able to knock a man out cold from the smell itself. “Maybe another time.” 

He watches her down her cup with a stubbornness that he’s only ever seen when she’s working. He does the same, swiping a piece of toast from the woman’s plate—“Hey!”—and chewing on it. Dry as the desert, and tastes like cardboard. The only thing it’s got going for it is the butter. 

“‘nother cup, sug’?” asks the waitress. 

Mei almost chokes on her food in her haste to answer. “O-oh, yes! Yes, please.”

McCree watches her tap the table next to her cup as it’s being filled, curious, but not enough to question it. He gives the waitress a nod—he’d tip his hat, too, if it weren’t for the fact it’s in his lap—and helps himself to his new cup. They’ve been at this for several days now, and he still hasn’t completely gotten used to the fact that he has a companion on the road with him. 

It’s easier that way: no one to look after, he could take bathroom breaks anytime and anywhere, he could sleep anywhere without worrying about another person’s comfort. But this mission required more than just himself, and Mei volunteered—she’s actually been keeping up with him better than he expected, especially for a scientist (though Winston would probably take offense to it). She didn’t mind sleeping out in the desert, drinking horrible coffee, getting under the car to fix it; if things are like this all the time, he probably wouldn’t mind doing group missions more.

He shakes his head. He shouldn’t think too hard about this—just the mission. 

“Come on, Deadlock ain’t gon’ arrest themselves.” McCree gets up from his seat, already restless from sitting and too much introspection. She looks up, face stuffed with food, but eager. 

“You’ve got it!”


End file.
